Better to Feel Nothing
by DitchablePromDate
Summary: AU picking up after Season 5 finale. The epic story of two brothers who in trying to save each other choose to do what they believe is right, and find themselves becoming chess pieces in a battle between good and evil. A story of guilt, regret, the struggle for power, twisted feelings, and fallen angels.
1. Chapter 1

_This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. I do not claim these characters to be my own, nor do I attempt to make this story an accurate portrayal of true-life events._

* * *

**CHAPTER 1**

The overly starched sheets of the cot crinkled as Dean shifted under them. He rolled onto his side, trying to find a comfortable position, and stared at the painted cement-block wall. The scratchy material of his pants irritated his legs. His fingers played with a loose string hanging at the edge of his pillowcase. It came away with a gentle tug and Dean began balling it up with his fingers. He rolled the little ball of string between his pointer and his thumb then flicked it toward the wall. The ball soared through the air until it hit the wall softly, sliding down into the space between the cement and the cot. Dean's eyes tracked the path of the string. He stared at the point where it had disappeared, and sighed, allowing his mind to wander. A face began taking shape in his mind, clouding out the white cement walls. His brother, Sam. The face floated out of the fog, materializing slowly, gradually sharpening into a definite shape. It was a fond memory. Sam was smiling at him, his long hair tucked behind his ears. _…I'm a cowboy. On a steel horse I ride… _The music started softly and then, like Sam's face, became more defined until Dean could hear it clearly. Sam's face turned, and as it did the surroundings began to take shape as well: the passenger seat of the Impala solidifying out of the fog. Dean could see a country landscape flying by in the window behind Sam's head. Sam turned back to Dean, the smile still playing across his lips, he began to sing along, "And I'm wanted. Wanted! Dead or alive…" He laughed and his smile widened into a grin. He was there with Dean, the pair of them sitting in the Impala, passing the world by singing along to the radio. Then suddenly, it was gone, replaced again by the white painted cement bricks of the wall. _Dammit, _Dean cursed his lack of resolve. It had been harder the last few days to keep his mind sealed from memories. They kept creeping in, pounding away at the cracks until they seeped into his mind. He had no way to stop the dreams, but he could at least try a little harder not to let that happen while he was conscious! He huffed in annoyance. Solitary had been a relief in his first years. It wasn't that the jeers of the other inmates had been too much to handle, rather, he had appreciated the moments alone. The guards had seemed to catch on though, to the fact that Dean had found being alone more pleasurable than being around the others. And so they had been less willing to send Dean to the hole after stirring up trouble, settling instead for locking him in his cell, the one that opened onto the common area, so that the others could taunt him through the bars as he sat on his cot. Dean had taken to sealing off the sounds, blocking out the world, and retreating to his mind. That was when the memories had started. At first Dean found them comforting. Seeing Sam again. Sometimes Bobby, his father, or even Castiel would make an appearance. On better days he could see his mother, her blonde hair shining, and her skin glowing in his mind. But what he first found a comfort had quickly turned sour. The memories were fleeting. Each time vanishing and, like being dunked in a bucket of ice water, the shock of sitting in a cell alone washed over him anew. So he had taken to blocking those out too. It was better that way, he had decided. It was too painful to relive those moments just to have them ripped away once again.

Dean pulled his eyes away from the wall and flipped to his back to look at the ceiling. Yes, the guards could keep Dean in the common area after a harmless scuffle, but rules were rules and after Dean's last… altercation they had had no choice but to send him to the hole. The guy had had it coming to him, Dean thought bitterly.

* * *

Dean had been sitting at one of the tables in the middle of the common area, paging through a book without actually looking at the words when a thick hand slammed down next to him. It probably would have rocked the whole table, too, had it not been screwed into the floor. Dean looked up from the book slowly, a smile curling on one side of his lips.

"Hey there, big guy," Dean smiled, his eyes gliding over the guy's enormous biceps to take in his bald head and clean-shaved face.

The guy smiled in return, "Well aren't you a pretty thing." He grinned.

Dean looked away and rolled his eyes. _Obviously new_, he thought. "Look man, you really don't want to start something here." He glanced around and saw that others had started gathering, wanting to watch the show.

"Oh, I think I do," said baldy. "See, I hear you think you're pretty tough. But I know that's all just for show, right? You're just a sweet-heart on the inside. I'll help you break down those walls," the man smiled wickedly. "Why don't we go back to my cot and I can show you what I mean," he gestured over his shoulder with his thumb and then crossed his arms.

Dean stood up from the table, smiling slightly, gathering the book in his hands he turned toward his cell, figuring it was better to ignore the son of a bitch on his own accord rather than suffer the punishments the guards would inevitably dole out if they were caught fighting. But his pathway was blocked by the ring of bodies that had formed, eager to see the notorious Winchester battle it out with the new guy.

"Comon," the guy whined, feigning disappointment at Dean's turned back. "You know, I've got a friend on the outside. Says he knows your brother. Sam, isn't it?"

Dean stilled. The smile slid off his face, replaced with hard lines and a glare. He turned to face the guy.

The guy's smile widened, seeing he had touched a nerve, he continued to poke. "Yeah, that's right. Sammy."

"Don't you call him that," Dean spat, his calm persona abandoned, heat rising into his cheeks.

"Well, I hear, from my buddy," said the guy smoothly, looking around at the crowd and then back to Dean, "That I'd be doing you a favor, I hear you Winchesters like it rough."

And that was it. Dean tossed the book to the ground and launched himself at the guy. The smug look on the guy's face was replaced by a flicker of fear and then determined anger. Dean's first swing connected with the left side of the guy's face and he stumbled backward, striking out wildly with his first packing enough force that it cracked Dean's rib when it connected. Unfazed, Dean dodged the next swing, sending his knee upward between the guy's legs. The sound of the crowd as they simultaneously sucked in air was a loud hiss and some shifted uncomfortably, feeling the guy's pain. He doubled over in agony and Dean took that opportunity to bring his knee up again, right into the guy's nose. A loud crack resounded through the hall, very obviously the sound of a nose breaking violently in two. The guy's face and torso flew upward and he stumbled, falling backwards onto the ground. The crowd was cheering and moving with the fight. The sounds of the guards' whistles were loud now as they fought the crowd out of the way, trying to break into the circle.

Dean couldn't hear anything but the rush of blood in his ears, red framing his vision, his heart beat setting the tempo as he straddled the guy's torso and rained blows down onto his face. He hardly felt it when the guard's grabbed onto his shoulders and yanked him off the bleeding man. He swung out violently, thrashing his legs trying to connect blindly with whatever he could reach. He felt the toe of his shoe hit satisfyingly into one of the guard's abdomen before they began beating him with their batons and boots. Dean brought his arms up to cover his head and face as the clubs and kicks brought him out of his blind rage into reality. A shrill whistle resounded through the common area and the guards stopped immediately, leaving Dean curled in on himself. The crowd parted and Dean brought his arms down carefully. The pain was overwhelming, but nevertheless he brought his eyes up from the shined boots into the eyes of the warden.

The sour look on his face would have sent shivers through a lesser man, but Dean faced him with a look of resentment.

"Winchester, again?" the warden's voice boomed out, causing a few of the crowd, including some of the guards, to flinch away. He turned to one of the guards, "Send for the medics." The guard nodded and then turned to push his way through the crowd. The warden turned to the spectators, "What are you all looking at? As you were!" The inmates scattered under the warden's glaring eyes, not wanting to face the brunt of his anger. The warden turned back to Dean who was looking at him with a smug smile playing across his lips. The warden lowered his voice, his oiled hair shining under the artificial lights of the common room, "Winchester." He brought back his boot and swung it to connect with Dean's stomach. The air rushed out of his lungs and Dean gasped, struggling to regain his breath he glowered up at the warden.

"How many times are we going to do this, Winchester?" He brought his boot back again swung three more well-aimed kicks into Dean's abdomen. Dean curled in on himself and clenched his eyes shut, his body screaming in pain.

Taking a deep breath, the warden straightened and reached up to smooth back his hair, tucking a loose strand behind his ear. He took a step backward as the medics in their crisp white scrubs appeared and made their way toward Dean and the other man lying on the ground. Dean cracked his eyes open to see a team of three begin attending to the man, still passed out and bleeding from his nose. They placed a stretcher on the ground, shifting the unconscious man over and then tying him down to the board.

It seemed Dean always failed to remember that the punishment of the guards and warden were nothing compared to the journey to the infirmary. There were times that he'd been lucky enough to be able to walk himself there, but most times they wouldn't let him walk, and the thought of that alone was enough to turn him away from a brawl. He hated the thought of being tied up, it reminded him of his time in hell, on the rack, pinned down with no way to defend himself. His chest was tight, his lungs uncooperative, breath coming ragged as he watched the medic team set another flat stretcher on the ground next to him. His breath caught in his throat and he made an attempt to wiggle away into a sitting position.

"No, Mr. Winchester. Please don't move," one of the medics, a young man, said soothingly.

"I-I'm fine," Dean struggled to squeak out, scooting backwards on his butt, using his hands to propel himself backwards and away from the team. He got less than a foot before his back bumped into the legs of the warden, who had moved to prevent his escape. Dean twisted his sore neck to see what had stopped him, looking up at the cruel smile. Dean scowled, but that look was quickly replaced with terror when he felt one of the medics who was kneeling next to him grab onto his leg, right above his ankle, another grabbing onto his wrist. Dean gasped, unable to speak as they pulled him back along the floor back to the white board. Another two medics came over, having finished securing the other man to his stretcher, to help restrain Dean. One medic grabbed onto his leg, one hand forcefully holding down his thigh, the other hand on his shin. The other medic made a move to grab his free arm, and Dean yanked away forcefully, jostling his cracked rib and eliciting a gasp of pain from his mouth. His vision fuzzed, giving the medic the opportunity to grab Dean's arm. Realizing he was trapped, adrenaline surged through his body, and Dean bucked and struggled, thrashing around as wildly as he could with his arms and legs restrained. A fifth medic took the opportunity to slide the board under Dean whose eyes were darting around looking for any means of escape.

"We're gonna need a sedative over here," one of the medics said through clenched teeth as he struggled to hold down Dean's leg.

"Ahead of you on that one," said another who rushed over holding the syringe upright. Dean's eyes were trained on the syringe, and he gave another wild thrash against the strong hands holding him in place. Dean's arm was forced straight, and he felt a sharp pinch as the needle pierced the skin.

"Fuck you!" Dean swore loudly and continued to struggle. But his limbs quickly began to feel like they were filled with lead, the sedative already taking effect. His eyelids were drooping, heavy as he tried to force them to stay open. The blackness of unconsciousness was licking at the sides of his vision already. The last thing he felt before the drugs overtook him was the medics positioning his legs and arms, strapping him down to the board as his lead lolled. Then his vision blanked out completely.

* * *

When Dean was finally able to open his eyes, his head felt heavy, his body exhausted. He was in the infirmary, the sheets over Dean's body a testament to that: they were so white that they hurt his eyes. He tried to lift his arms to rub his sore head and found that he could only lift his hand a few inches off the bed before it stopped. He looked down to see that both of his hands were shackled with padded cuffs to the sides of his bed. He tested his legs and found that they were also restrained. Dean huffed and then started when a quiet laugh came from beside his bed.

"What exactly were you expecting?" the woman asked rhetorically.

"Doctor Morgan," Dean turned to look at her and smiled and then flinched when the action made his head pulse with pain.

"Dean Winchester," she said, standing up from the cushioned chair, moving to the foot of Dean's bed and picking up the clipboard that hung there. "How many times does that make this?" she asked with a smile beginning to curl at her lips.

"Oh, Doctor Morgan, you know I can't stay away from you for long," Dean laughed softly, the pain in his head forgotten as he smiled coyly at her.

"Well it looks like you won't be here for long Dean. Only a fractured rib, not bad," she smiled sadly. "We kept you for the night, but there's no need for you to stay longer. It says here that you've been given four weeks of solitary confinement," Dr. Morgan looked up and added, "At least you won't be able to get into trouble there. You won't have to see me for at least four weeks," she gave another small chuckle. Dean returned her smile. What was four weeks when sentenced to the death penalty?

* * *

So that was how Dean had ended up wasting away the time making fluff balls out of pillow string. He had lost track of the days. As he scanned the ceiling of his cell for what was probably the thousandth time, he guessed that it had been somewhere close to four weeks by now. The aching in his ribs had stopped, the fractured bone had healed up just fine, according to the medic that had come to check on his progress. The bruises were long gone, the skin first turning from their deep purple into a sickly green and yellow before disappearing. Honestly, Dean didn't mind being away from the crowd, it wasn't the lack of human contact that he had trouble dealing with, it was the way his thoughts were all he had. With so much time alone, he couldn't keep them at bay. The sting he felt when they vanished made him feel so alone. It was better to feel nothing, Dean had decided, and so he closed his eyes and tried to let the emptiness consume him.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

Summer, 2010

The day that Sam threw himself into the pit, dragging Michael down with him, had been the first day of the rest of Dean's life as a man who just couldn't care anymore. He had wandered aimlessly after that. He had made a promise to Sam, but Sam was gone, and now there was no one to stop Dean slipping into a state of disrepair. Castiel had abandoned him, too, saying something about needing to return to heaven before vanishing. Dean was lost. He had considered keeping his promise to Sam, knocking on Lisa's door, and beginning a new life. But he didn't deserve it. Why make Lisa and Ben suffer? Instead, he drank until he couldn't see straight, and then until the darkness overwhelmed him. Really, it was no surprise when the authorities finally caught up to him. They had been on his tail for a month since Sam's death, and he hadn't been sober for a single one of those days. He was passed out on a motel bed when they broke the door down. He hadn't even bothered to kick off his shoes the night before, settling for lying splayed across the scratchy comforter of the bed. At least he had made it to the bed.

The fact that it had been the SWAT team who had broken down the door would have been laughable to any unknowing onlooker. The man they dragged over the wood debris didn't seem to be putting up a fight. He was squeezing his eyes shut in the bright morning light, and his blonde hair stuck up in all directions. Although he wasn't helping either: his feet dragged over the ground behind him as two uniformed SWAT members hauled him out of the room and into the transport van. They handcuffed him to the bench and slammed the doors shut behind him. Dean didn't care. These days, he was living from one hell to another.

They let him sober up for a long time in the interrogation room. His pounding headache finally subsiding, he lifted his head from his arms and looked up into the mirror that covered the wall in front of him. His eyes glanced down and he registered that on each wrist he wore a handcuff whose links were threaded in and out of two holes in the metal table. The room was small and had the sickly sweet smell of a clean hospital. Dean grimaced as a wave of nausea hit him. The walls were stark white and the floor was gray concrete, a gray metal table and two chairs sat in the middle of the room. One for Dean and one for…

The door at the right of the mirror opened and a man in a black suit strode into the room. His graying hair was combed back neatly into position, his face lined with years of concentration and hard stares. However his face held no malice right now. In fact, he looked quite pleased. "Mr. Winchester," said the man briskly, holding his black tie in place as he sat down in the chair across from Dean. "How very happy I am to finally see you here."

"So happy to be here, Agent K," Dean said, more gruffly than he intended. He cleared his throat, "What can I do for ya?"

"Mr. Winchester," said the agent, ignoring the jab, "I do believe you know why I'm here." Producing a manila file with the word CONFIDENTIAL stamped across it in bold red letters from the inside of his suit jacket, he flipped it open and scanned the first page, "Your record holds one of the most outstanding number of criminal offenses I have ever laid eyes on." He brought his eyes up to meet Dean's.

Dean grinned in return.

"Mr. Winchester."

Dean rolled his eyes, _Okay, I get it, you know my damn name. _"Yeah, that's me," said Dean with an air of annoyance.

The pleased look on the agent's face was replaced with one of stoic determination. "Mr. Winchester," he said again, obviously trying to get under Dean's skin. "Let's cut to the chase. I know you killed those people. You know you killed those people. This file is screaming out that you killed those people. This is cold-blooded murder, Mr. Winchester. There is no getting around it. You may as well cut the crap and start confessing, because from the looks of it, you have a lot to get through and it's already getting late."

Dean stared back at the agent, his face hard, "I think I'll take my phone call now."

* * *

"Bobby!"

"Dean, you idjit. What the hell is wrong with you, boy? We've been trying to get ahold of you for weeks."

"Bobby-I-wait, we?"

"Yeah Dean. That's what we've been trying to reach you for. Sam is alive! And if you weren't such a dumbass you'd know that and you wouldn't be in this situation." Bobby's voice was quivering against his best attempts to stay strong. "It's all over the news, Dean, they've been running the reports all morning," Bobby added quietly. "We're coming for ya."

The dial tone reverberated in Dean's ear as he stood at the phone in stunned silence. _Sam was alive._ And he had been too wrapped up in his sorrows to know. Dean cursed himself and reared back his fist, slamming it into the brick wall beside the telephone. The blood that welled up on his knuckles was smeared over his hand as a guard checked him against the wall, handcuffing his hands behind his back. Dean didn't struggle though—his mind was somewhere else. His head filled with thoughts as he was steered back to the interrogation room, one of the guard's hands on his bound wrists, the other gripping his shoulder tightly. _Sam was alive. He wasn't dead. Sam was alive. Bobby and Sam were coming for him. _Dean couldn't work out how Sam had gotten out of that cage, but one thought solidified as he was shoved down into the stiff-back chair and again handcuffed to the metal table. He didn't know how Sam had managed to escape Lucifer's cage, but he wasn't about to let his little brother throw himself into another.

* * *

The goodbye was short and to the point. Dean had been assigned a public defender, but he didn't place much hope in the guy. Dean figured that if he was in the guy's position he wouldn't have given the lunatic sitting in front of him a chance either. The attorney had seemed unsure how to go about this case. It wasn't every day that you were assigned a mass murderer to defend in court. But it didn't matter anyway. Dean had long before decided that he would take the fall. After speaking with Bobby, he had confessed almost immediately, right to the awestruck face of his attorney. It wasn't true, of course, but was what he needed to do, to protect Sam. Sam had given Dean the chance to live a life, and Dean had thrown it away. But Sam was good, Dean was sure he could live a full life. Better for Dean to take the fall and give Sam what he deserved. It was with this in mind that Dean didn't get too worked up when Sam urged him to get a different attorney.

"Whose gonna believe a story like mine, Sammy?" Dean had asked, his bottom lip quivered, green eyes glistening, but he wouldn't cry, he had to stay strong for Sam.

"Dean, you have to do something." Sam's hand pressed up against the dividing glass, his words insistent and stumbling, his face pained, brow furrowed.

"No, Sam," Dean lined his fingers up with his brothers'. The glass was cold under his palm, and truthfully, a part of Dean was happy he couldn't wrap Sam into a bone-crushing hug. He was worried he wouldn't have let go. "There's nothing to do. There's no more to say."

Bobby moved to stand behind Sam and put a protective hand on his shoulder. Sam leaned in toward the touch, still clutching the phone to the side of his face. Dean lifted his eyes to look at the man who was the closest thing he had to a father. He couldn't hear the words but his eyes traced the movement of Bobby's lips, _I'm proud of you, boy._

Dean's breath hitched when he felt the hand of the guard on his shoulder, mirroring Bobby's hand on Sam. "Time's up, Winchester."

Dean's eyes snapped back to Sam's who was looking frantic, his eyes welling up with tears, "Dean! I-I love you, Dean."

Dean had just enough time to give Sam his best playing-it-cool smile and respond, "I know," before the guard grabbed his arm and hefted him out of the chair. Relieved to be spun around away from the window, he finally let the tears run down his cheeks as he was steered out of the room.

* * *

If Dean had thought the goodbye was short, the trial was even shorter. The glares from the members of the jury didn't faze Dean, nor did the look of disgust on the judge's face. The difficult part was sitting at the stand, when he found Sam's face among the audience, his eyes puffy and tearful. He was glad to have his back turned on the audience when the verdict was read.

_The state of Texas versus Dean Winchester, verdict, count one, we, the jury, do find the defendant as to first degree murder, guilty._ The jury was unanimous on their vote. It wasn't unexpected, but Dean's chest was tight, his heartbeat thudding in his ears as each juror was asked, _Is this your true answer?_ And each responded with a resounding, _Yes_.

In the years to come, when Dean's mind wandered while staring at cement walls, Dean had wished he'd kept his back turned. But damn him, he couldn't help but throw a glance over his shoulder at Sam one last time. Bobby had one arm wrapped around Sam's shoulder, the other with a firm grip digging into his bicep as Sam struggled against the hold. The roar in Dean's ears was too loud to hear, the firm grip on his arm to painful to resist, his footsteps unsure and wobbly. As his eyes connected with Sam's for the last time he wished things had turned out differently for them. But the wish was empty, he knew it. _Free will is an illusion, Dean,_ someone had once told him. He bitterly agreed, you can't fight destiny. Dean was being ushered through the door, far away from Sam and Bobby. He knew he would never see them again. _You can't fight destiny_ repeated to himself, but with all his heart he wished he could.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 3**

Early 2011

It had been six months since Sam had last seen Dean in the courtroom. The blackness of the night outside the window was heavy. The winter winds rattled through the halls, making the house groan in protest. The chills didn't reach Sam, however, the fire roaring behind him heated the room as he sat at the table, surrounded by books that had become familiar to him now. The stacks of legal textbooks to his right was at least two feet high, each book stuffed with pages of scribbled notes, the booklets of case briefs were scattered aimlessly, obscuring the dark wood of the table. Newspaper clippings littered any empty space, some hung on the wall, and a few had fallen to the floor, forgotten. _Examples & Explanations: Criminal Procedure: The Constitution & Police. _Sam turned the page, scanning again for a hint of something, anything that could help. If he could just find something that could help Dean's case… His attempts were futile, the itching in the back of his mind told him that, but he couldn't give up. Sam huffed in frustration and tossed the book to the ground where it slid along the hardwood floor before bumping into the rug.

Bobby had tried to comfort him, "Look Sam, it could be worse. At least he's not back in hell." His raised eyebrows had been pleading, begging Sam to let it go. He had lost his boys more times than he could count, and that wild look in Sam's eyes worried him. He knew the lengths they would go to sacrifice themselves for each other, every time. Sam's first thoughts of making a deal with a crossroads demon were halted when Bobby reasoned, "Dean would be furious Sam. It's a miracle you got out. He wouldn't want you to throw your life away again." Sam knew he was right. Dean wouldn't be happy about Sam busting him out of jail if it meant sending himself to hell. Sam wasn't stupid though, just because it wasn't the hell that Dean and Sam knew, wouldn't stop Dean from tearing himself up inside, racked with guilt. And the death penalty? Well, Sam couldn't just let Dean go without a fight. So he had done everything he could think of, everything in his power to find a catch, some shred of evidence, some old case that would help get Dean out. But there was nothing.

"Boy."

Sam jumped at the sudden sound, his tired eyes snapping up from the case brief in his hands to Bobby standing in the doorway. The older man looked worn down. He stooped to pick up the book where Sam had thrown it, straightening the pages as he made his way to the table in the middle of the room. "Sam," he said more gently, "you need to get some sleep." He put the book down softly on the table.

"Bobby," protested Sam, not feeling up to another argument. "I'm fine."

Bobby scoffed at him. "If by 'fine' you mean 'obsessed' and 'worn thin' then, yeah, you're just peachy."

The fire made the angular shadows in the room dance, the bags under Sam's eyes giving him a sunken, sickly look. Sam threw Bobby an annoyed expression and then brought his attention back to the notes in his hands. Bobby crossed the room, brushing past Sam, sending a few more newspaper clippings flying from the table.

"Hey!" Sam shot him another annoyed look.

Bobby ignored him and stooped to turn on the lamp, which flickered to life, washing the room in light. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, the sudden change making them sting. Bobby turned on the TV as well, and it emitted a high-pitched frequency before the moving pictures solidified and the voices of the news reporters cleared.

"You can't stay cooped up here forever, Sam. You know you're always welcome in my house, but you need to stop obsessing. It's just not healthy. You know, you should come on my next hunt with me. Caleb and I have been tracking some demons in south Utah, we could really use your help."

The female reporter on the television was looking at the camera stoically_…brutal murder of another teenage girl…_

Sam cast a glance from Bobby to the television, and both men turned to watch the story unfold_…the body was discovered early Sunday morning…_ The murder rates had been rising steadily for close to a year now. Typical demon killings. There were too many to prevent these days_…police are investigating…_ Sam felt the sinking sensation of guilt in his gut. He wanted to help Dean but he also had a job to do. Something big was happening; Sam could feel that, too. The demons' killings had become so commonplace that even the media had gotten wind of something fishy. Of course, no one believed the eyewitness accounts of people whose only symptom was that their eyes turned black before they were lost to madness, often lashing out and killing before turning suicidal themselves. It seemed to be some kind of contagious disease, and people had taken to wearing surgical masks whenever they ventured outside. As if that would help.

Bobby and Sam had kept up contact with other hunters. But everyone seemed at a loss for what was really going on; no one was sure what had spurred the demons into their killing frenzy. Hunters were always secretive about their work, though, so it didn't surprise Sam when their attempts to gather information didn't yield many results. Yet, the increase in demonic activity wasn't the thing that worried Sam the most. Demons had never been exactly quiet about their trouble making. Killing was just good fun, they brought havoc wherever they went. And yeah, there had been reports with the telltale signs of demonic origin before, not this frequent, of course, but they weren't unheard of. It seemed humans and demons weren't the only ones walking the Earth these days.

Reports had been coming in. Strange sightings. Huge birds in the sky, flitting through the clouds, flying close to the sun. Sam couldn't be sure until he'd heard one crazed interviewee on the news.

_The man was frantic, "I swear, I swear to God, Himself. It was an angel. I know it was. The wings, they were huge."_

_ When the news report cut back to the studio the well-manicured reporter gave the camera a wide smile. "Well folks, you heard it here first. An angel. What do you think of that, Jim?" the blonde woman turned to her cohost._

_ "Ha! Ha! I'm not sure what to think Kelly," he mocked, shooting her a bleached grin. "One thing's for sure, I'll be sure to let you know if I get any visitors with wings on my doorstep."_

The reporters had laughed before it cut to commercial. Sam remembered hearing something about the witness being admitted for a psych evaluation. So it was true, his thoughts had been confirmed. The angels were among them.

Sam turned his head away from the television, the reporters had moved on, now talking casually about the weather.

"Sure, Bobby. I'd be glad to lend a hand."

* * *

Early Summer, 2011

They had tracked and taken out the group of demons without too many problems. Not before three innocents had been murdered, but at least they had saved the people who were being possessed. The demons just kept coming, though, shoving back against the hunters' attempts to keep them at bay. Sam had been hunting with Bobby for a few months, exorcizing as many demons as they could when the call came.

"I'll get it!" Sam hollered from the kitchen. He snatched the phone from its hook on the wall and brought it up to his ear. "Hello?"

"Good afternoon. Is a Samuel Winchester available?" the gravely voice on the other end sounded harsh, professional.

"Yes, this is him," said Sam warily.

"Mr. Winchester, it is with deepest regret that I must relay this news."

Sam couldn't make a sound; he felt his stomach drop. He propped himself against the wall. His locked legs the only thing keeping him upright.

The man on the other end of the line continued, "Dean was found dead this morning. The cause of death is being ruled suicide."

"Wha-what?" Sam managed to breathe out then whispered, "Suicide?"

"It is unfortunate, Mr. Winchester, I am very sorry about your loss."

Sam could hardly breathe. His vision blurred as tears welled in his eyes. He slowly released a shuddering breath, but it did little to calm him down. Bobby appeared in the doorway of the kitchen.

"What's going on, Sa-" Bobby took one look at Sam's twisted features and knew something bad had happened. He crossed the room and took the phone from Sam's hands. Sam's knees buckled and his back slid down, scraping against the wall.

Bobby finished up the conversation with the man on the phone with the practiced stoicism of a hardened soldier, agreeing to have Dean's body cremated, then gently placed the phone back on the hook. "Sam," Bobby whispered, turning toward the slumped figure on the ground, he reached his hand out and set it on Sam's quaking shoulder. Sam's face was buried in his hands, but he lifted his head up to meet Bobby's eyes. Sam's face was lined with tears, his eyes clenching shut and opening again, trying to clear his vision as the sobs wracked his body. His head dropped again and he shook it back and forth.

"No. No, no, no. Bobby, I was supposed to save him. I was supposed to get him out of there," Sam sobbed.

"Sam, there was nothing you could do. He's in a better place now," Bobby responded softly.

Sam's head shot up to glare at Bobby, fierce anger in his eyes and clouding his expression. "How can you know! How can you say that Bobby! When we don't even-we don't even know," another sob interrupted Sam's outburst. But the hurt built in his chest again, and he shrugged Bobby's arm off his shoulder forcefully, climbing to his feet. Wiping away his still-flowing tears, Sam shook his head again, met Bobby's sad gaze once more, and then turned on his heel and stormed out of the kitchen. From where he was Bobby could hear the front door being wrenched open, followed shortly by a loud slam as Sam yanked it shut behind him.

Bobby slowly made his way to the kitchen table. The sound of the chair scraping against the tiled floor was harsh to his ears. He sat down heavily and rested his elbows on the table. He sighed, burying his face in his palms, his mind reaching back to one of his fondest memories.

_A ten-year-old Dean tore through the kitchen, chasing Sam, who was squealing at the top of his lungs, past John and Bobby where they sat around the table._

_ "Boys! Settle down!" John Winchester shouted at his sons as they past, reaching out to grab Dean's skinny wrist and missing._

_ "Aw, don't worry about it, John," Bobby chuckled as the boys disappeared around the corner. "Boys will be boys, you know." He picked up his beer and took a swig._

_ John huffed and rolled his eyes, picking up his own beer and taking a long drag. "They're wearing me down, Bobby. They're getting to be a real handful."_

_ "Well, you don't have to do it all by yourself, John. You should come by whenever you can. Lord knows this house starts feelin' like a home when you bring the boys around." Bobby smiled as he thought of his late wife, Karen. Karen had wanted children, she would have made a great mother. The memory was interrupted by the sound of glass breaking in the living room. Bobby threw a look over his shoulder toward the sound, not missing the way John's face darkened before he hefted himself out of the chair toward the living room. Bobby was close on his heels._

_ The tall standing lamp had been knocked to the ground. Dean and Sam looked like deer caught in the headlight beams of a car._

_ Sam's head slumped in shame when he saw his father enter the room, Bobby close behind him. Dean looked from the lamp, up to Bobby, and then over to his father. "Sir, we-I-it was an accident," Dean finally breathed out, taking a protective step in front of Sam._

_ Color was rising in John's face. He sucked in a breath, ready to give Dean a stern talking to when Bobby cut him off. "I never liked that old thing anyway."_

_ Dean looked from his father over to Bobby, and Sam peaked up through his bangs to look curiously at the older man. John shot a sideways glance at Bobby, letting his breath out slowly before shifting his gaze back to the two boys standing in front of him._

_ Dean seemed unsure what to say, "I'm very sorry, Bobby. I'll clean it up right away."_

_ "Let's go get the dustpan and broom, I'll help you out. Come on, Sam." With that, Bobby turned around and headed back to the kitchen. Dean and Sam shuffled past their father and then scurried to catch up. John followed along behind, returning to the table as he watched Bobby hand Dean the broom, Sam waiting open-handed for the dustpan. Bobby looked over at John and gave him a warm smile, which the man returned, scratching his head sheepishly. Bobby knew that John was doing his best as a single parent, and hell, the boys seemed to be growing up just fine. Sam was bright eyed and eager to learn, even as a kindergartener. And Dean was always ready to obediently follow John's orders. It had been difficult after Mary's death, but Bobby was happy to help push that out of their minds for at least a short time. They stayed up late that night, Bobby and John telling watered-down ghost stories to the delight of Dean and Sam. Bobby heard their laughter and saw their faces smiling up at him clear as day in his mind._

Just as quickly as the memory had surfaced, it vanished. Bobby lifted his face from his hands. The kitchen was almost twenty years older now, and the place looked almost exactly the same, yet so much had changed.

* * *

It wasn't fair, and it hurt like hell. Sam's boots crunched against the gravel of the driveway. The air was warm but Sam felt cold. He thought of his coat lying across the back of one of the kitchen chairs, forgotten when he'd stormed out. The sun was just beginning to set, the sky growing orange and hazy in the late afternoon. He hugged himself and kept moving forward. He hung a left at the end of Bobby's long driveway, scuffing his boots in the dirt. By now his tears were drying on his cheeks, leaving a sticky trail of salt. He pulled down the sleeve of his plaid flannel past his wrist and brought it up to his face to wipe his nose and eyes. The cicadas were buzzing loudly from the trees lining the dirt road, humming their toneless, unending song. The grass was high here, but it bent easily under Sam's feet as he trudged his way over to a fallen log. He sat down heavily, and grasped at a stalk of grass, swiftly uprooting it from the ground. He peeled away the outer layers, exposing the soft, fragile core. He trapped it between his pointer and thumb and used his thumbnail to break it in half. He mashed it to a messy green paste and then sighed, looking down at his coated fingers and then wiped them clean as best he could on his jeans. Sam ran a hand through his hair, tucking it behind his ear. Dean would have complained about it needing cut. The thought made his chest tighten, anger welling up inside him. He grabbed a pebble off the ground and then hurled it into the air, tracking it until he lost sight of it among the trees.

"Ah, Sasquatch, now what did that rock ever do to you?"

Sam jumped at the voice and turned to the stalky figure cutting through the grass toward him. "Crowley." Sam made a move for the knife in his back pocket, but Crowley put both of his hands up in a display of trust.

"I'm not here to fight you, Moose," Crowley said, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I just want to talk."

"I'm not really in the mood," Sam responded, glaring.

"I don't really care." Crowley paused. "I heard about your brother." Sam didn't respond and Crowley added, "I can't tell you how happy my demons were to get ahold of him again."

Sam's quick intake of breath was audible. _Dammit, Dean couldn't catch a break._ Sam's brow furrowed with emotion, "He's back in hell? I thought-maybe-"

"You don't just get off that easy from a deal with a crossroads demon," said Cowley, his eyes flashing red. "What exactly did you expect? You're little angel might have pulled him out, but Dean's soul belongs to hell," Crowley spat viciously.

"You son of a bitch!" Sam yelled as he launched himself off the log, whipping the silver knife from his pocket. Crowley smirked and struck his hand out into the air with an open palm. Sam was knocked off his feet; the knife flew from his hands and landed in the dirt, his back pressed up against the log.

"Tut, tut. You should watch your mouth, Moose. Like I said, I'm not here to fight. I think we need to talk."

"I don't have anything to say to you," Sam growled through gritted teeth. Crowley ignored him and began pacing in front of Sam, leaning down to retrieve the knife from its landing place in the dirt.

"You may have seen the reports." Crowley spun the knife through his fingers. "I know my demons have not gone unnoticed by you and your _friends_," Crowley said with distaste, "and it's true, many have grown tired of the confinement of hell. We're looking to expand our territory," Crowley sneered. "But that's not the issue at hand. You are aware of your growing pest problem, yes?"

Sam only snorted in response; the demons were the only ones causing trouble right now. He was again ignored as Cowley continued to pace.

"It seems the angels have taken a liking to Earth since Michael's disappearance. My sources tell me that the angels are without direction. They seek leadership, Moose. They'd refuse to take orders from me, you know, being King of Hell and all. But I've got a hunch." Cowley stopped and looked into Sam's eyes. "Who better a leader than the man who defeated Lucifer himself?"

"I didn't defeat Lucifer. I don't even know how I escaped the cage," Sam frowned back at Crowley.

"Oh, details, details. You did enough, Moose. Left to their own devices, there's no telling what the angels will do. They need rules and a firm hand. The angels need someone to follow, and you're the man for the job. You were made to lead."

"Why would I help you?" Sam narrowed his eyes, smirking.

"Because," Crowley's lips twitched, "I'm willing to make a deal." Crowley broke into a wicked grin. "You lead them, just as destiny always wanted, and I'll pull your brother out of hell."

The smirk dropped from Sam's face. He could save Dean? And all Crowley wanted him to do was give the angels someone to listen to? Sam thought it sounded too good to be true, there had to be a catch, but for the life of him he couldn't figure out what it was, and honestly, he didn't care. Sam's face hardened as he found his resolve. He would do whatever he could to save his brother. "Fine. You've got a deal."

Crowley looked smug. He bent his elbow, bringing his hand level with his face, his thumb touching his fingers. "Well then. Let's get started." He snapped his fingers and he and Sam vanished.

* * *

The cicadas' song had continued uninterrupted in the hours after Sam and Crowley's conversation. Bobby stopped his car on the dirt road beside the flattened grass, having headed out to retrieve Sam from wherever he was sulking. He turned off the ignition and climbed down from his seat, making his way toward a fallen log not far from the side of the road. A flash of light caught his eye and he bent down to pick up Sam's silver knife, lodged in the ground. Bobby straightened and looked around, peering at the trees whose leaves stirred in the night wind.

Bobby dropped the knife and cupped his hands around his mouth. "SAM!" he called out as loudly as he could. He yelled until his chest hurt and his throat was scraped raw. Swallowing, he looked around, there was no sign of the boy anywhere. "Sam," Bobby called out feebly one last time. There was no one there to hear his calls but the cicadas, and they remained unfazed as they buzzed their wordless hymn.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER 4**

Charlotte Parker had grown up in a high-class town just north of London. Her wealthy parents insisted on giving her the very best education, and when she was old enough, it was decided that she would go to America to get her business degree. Her high marks and a letter from her father addressed to the Dean earned her a spot at Brown University where Charlotte devoted herself to her studies. Late nights in the library, an early-set alarm, and too much caffeine were the norm.

After two years at school, Charlotte had picked up the phone to hear her aunt sobbing on the other end. The road had been slick with rain, the dim light cast from the street lamps hardly helping to illuminate the night. Her aunt explained between shuddering breaths that Charlotte's parents had died in a car crash. She listened in shocked silence then bid a farewell to her aunt and placed the phone down on the receiver. She cast a glance over at the textbooks crowding the bed in her dorm.

Charlotte finished her schooling, simply going through the motions. Her professors urged her to go on to graduate school, but she simply smiled and responded noncommittally, "Maybe." Charlotte was lost. She couldn't go back—her old home held too many memories. But the thought going to graduate school, of more years sitting at a desk and taking notes made her stomach knot. School had been a constant reminder of her parents and their dreams, but they were gone, and Charlotte was left with a hole in her heart and nowhere to turn.

After graduation, she surfed the listings and bought a house in upstate New York. Though her parents' inheritance lined her bank account, she settled for a modest two bedroom that had long ago seen its glory days. The house was small, but entirely furnished, the real estate agent mentioning something about the former owner leaving in a hurry. It needed a lot of work, but it was exactly what Charlotte was looking for: the perfect distraction. It was just the thing to occupy her time. If the scuttling of rats in the walls and the terrible electrical shortages were anything to go by, she would have little room in her head for other thoughts.

It took all her might to open the front door from its sticky jam. Charlotte was breathless when she finally wrenched it open and took in the sight of the electricians she had called for standing on her porch.

"Uh, hello," she breathed to the two men crowding her doorway. One had ducked his head to peek through the door; the other held a toolbox.

"Hello, Mrs. Parker?" the taller man spoke first, his voice turning up at the end when he said her name.

Charlotte let out a breathy laugh, "It's 'Miss.' But you can call me Charlotte." She flashed her very best smile. Her eyes flitted from the first man to the second. His blonde hair was spiked off to the side, and the skin around his green eyes crinkled when he smiled back at her.

It was he who spoke next. "Well then, Charlotte, our company said you were having some problems with the lights. Do you think we could come in?"

To cut a long story short, that was how Dean and Sam Winchester had introduced Charlotte Parker to her first poltergeist. It had been somewhere near five years since that day, and now Charlotte was one of the most notorious hunters of her time.

Charlotte wasn't like most hunters. Seeing the opportunity for a fresh start, she threw herself into the world of hunting. Her father's dreams for her future were abandoned, and Charlotte was determined to put as much distance between herself and her old life as possible. Still haunted by the memories of her past, she filled her time learning everything there was to know about the job. She hired experts in all types of hand-to-hand combat, quickly mastering how to handle everything from a knife to a flamethrower. Her charming personality won her a place in the ranks of the other hunters, sharing secrets and trading tidbits of information and urban mythology. Charlotte soaked it all up like a sponge. Her weapons were custom made from the very best materials. And though her name was well known among the hunting community, those supernatural sons of bitches never saw her coming. There was no creature Charlotte wasn't willing to face.

* * *

Summer 2010

Dean Winchester's case had not slipped past Charlotte unnoticed, and neither had the recent rise in demonic activity. But the court case had been particularly difficult to ignore. The media had plastered the story on the front page of every newspaper. The television stations replayed the video of Dean being herded into the courtroom endlessly. _The jury has reached a guilty verdict,_ read the scrolling text at the bottom of the screen. Charlotte picked up the remote and pressed the power button, the television flickering out, the screen turning black. She stood up and made her way to the window of her flat on the upper east side of Manhattan, sipping a glass of wine. Charlotte had always been fit, but the years of physical training had hardened her muscles and slimmed her figure. Her light brown hair curled gently, reaching down past her shoulders to tickle her back-bare in her black cocktail dress. Her blue eyes scanned the streets below and she caught her bottom lip between her teeth, biting down gently while she thought. Dean Winchester was in prison and demons were running amok. _What could you expect_, Charlotte thought to herself, _after the dawning of the apocalypse?–or, non-apocalypse… _Whatever had happened that day, though it wasn't a total secret, no one seemed able to give a full account of the events. Only the Winchesters knew the exact story, and at least one of them wasn't going to be talking about it anytime soon.

The demon problem didn't faze Charlotte very much. She'd taken care of her fair share of possessions. But it wasn't just the odd job anymore. It seemed something else was happening. Charlotte had been keeping track of the cases. They were springing up more frequently, demons killing off humans all over the country. _Why?_ Charlotte asked herself. Did demons need a reason? It seemed she had hit a wall. Charlotte had been hunting them down, but she was growing bored of the monotony. Again and again, demon after demon. Threats and torture gained her nothing but the same information, and it was questionable at best. The demons seemed to have no purpose, they were simply doing as they pleased, and it pleased them to terrorize and kill. Already, there was no way to stop them all. The demons were growing in numbers. Though the hunters had been doing their best, it seemed their best just wasn't cutting it anymore. They needed a plan; they needed something else.

Charlotte raised her eyes to the dark sky. The lights of the city usually lit the night too much to make out the stars. Charlotte squinted her eyes, willing the stars to shine just a little brighter. Realization dawned in her eyes. They needed something else, and Charlotte knew just the thing.

* * *

"Ladies and gentlemen," Charlotte spoke clearly to the people around the oval conference table. She had called in all her favors. "If I could ask everyone to find a seat, I would like to begin as swiftly as possible." The group of hunters that had been shifting nervously in the corner moved to find seats among the others in the room. They looked out of place when they pulled up chairs to settle amongst those already surrounding the table. To Charlotte's left four men and a woman in business attire were eyeing the scruffy looking hunters warily. Those to Charlotte's right were dressed professionally, but not donning the suits and ties of the businessmen across the table.

"It's good to see you again, Charlotte," said the man closest to her on her right. He was an older man, hair graying.

"So glad you could make it, Master Jung," replied Charlotte to her former Taekwondo instructor.

Master Jung smiled in return and turned back to finish watching the hunters settle uncomfortably at the far end of the table.

"Look, lady," piped up one of the men on Charlotte's left. "Do you mind telling us why the hell we're here? I have a very busy schedule and a lot to get done in the office." He held out his wrist and tapped the face of his watch loudly with his finger.

"All in good time, Mr. Cooper," Charlotte said raising her eyebrows, lips quirked in a smile.

"How do you know my name?" Mr. Cooper asked, his brow furrowing as he narrowed his eyes.

Charlotte bent over and placed both her hands firmly on the table. "I will ask that you hold all questions until the end of this presentation," she met eyes with all five of the business-clad people on her left, eyes lingering on Mr. Cooper. "First things first," Charlotte continued, "introductions." She straightened, smoothing down the front of her blouse where it tucked into her skirt. Charlotte raised her voice to address the audience, "Good morning, and thank you for taking the time to be here."

Mr. Cooper rolled his eyes. Charlotte ignored him.

"My name is Charlotte Parker, and I am about to present to you the business opportunity of a lifetime. I have gathered only the very best for this special project." Charlotte swept her hand in a semicircle in front of her, gesturing to the people at the table, "Each of you is in expert in your field." She looked to the people at her right, "Masters and trainers in combat and weaponry." Her eyes glided to the hunters at the opposite end of the table, "Trackers and storytellers." Lastly, Charlotte looked at the group on her left, "And our very own government officials, what would we do without you?" Charlotte's smile was wide, her eyes bright with excitement. She glanced over at the Secretary of Defense. It paid to have friends in high places.

She continued, "As I'm sure all of you are aware, we have seen a recent rise in murder and suicide in the past few months. Some at this table know the true culprits," she glanced at the hunters, who shifted uncomfortably in their seats. "But those who don't are about to learn the truth."

A woman dressed in blue jeans and a burgundy long-sleeved shirt who was nestled between two other hunters caught Charlotte's eyes. "Charlotte?" She looked confused, a frown appearing on her face. You couldn't just go blabbing about the supernatural to your average citizen. You risked the chance of being labeled crazy, and most people couldn't handle the thought that being afraid of the dark wasn't irrational. No, it was better that people were left in peace.

"Abigail," Charlotte silenced her with a raised finger, _wait._ "It is time some people were made aware of what is really going on here. Allow me to explain." Charlotte crossed the room and flipped a switch on the wall next to the door. The lights went out and a projector that hung from the ceiling hummed to life as the blinds on the windows automatically lowered. A white screen was unrolling where Charlotte had been standing at the head of the table. The projector, sufficiently warmed up, displayed the title card on the enormous hanging screen. _Welcome to Project Blue Sky._

Charlotte clicked a button on the remote in her hand, and the presentation started automatically. There were detailed retellings of the recent murders and alleged suicides. Charlotte pointed out the connections, the telltale signs that had gone unnoticed to everyone but the hunters: the traces of sulfur and the witness accounts of eyes that turned pure black among other evidence. Monsters weren't just for horror movies and fairy tales. These threats were real. And right now, their biggest problem was demons.

The presentation ended, and Charlotte flicked the switch on the wall again. The lights turned on and Charlotte scanned her audience as they reacted to the information. Her former masters and trainers had looked confused at first, but they seemed to accept her word as truth and most of them were sitting with a look of thought and concentration on their faces. The hunters were staring at Charlotte looking doubtful and resentful. Revealing the existence of the supernatural to a bunch of civvies didn't seem like a very good idea. But she had really done it now, Charlotte had made her bed, and now they were all going to have to sleep in it. Most of the government businessmen were still staring at the blank screen slack-jawed.

Mr. Cooper shook his head, "I can't believe it. This stuff is real? Well what the hell are we supposed to do!?"

"Like I said, Mr. Cooper," Charlotte said coolly, "The hunters have been handling these things for decades. We know we're doing. The issue at hand is that there are too many demons, and too few hunters."

"So, that's what you want?" the Secretary of Defense, Mr. Lawrence, finally spoke up. He had been silent throughout the entire meeting, his expression growing darker as Charlotte had presented the evidence, proving the existence of these… _supernatural_… beings. "You've brought us here to demand an army?"

"No, no, Mr. Lawrence, of course not. You've got it all wrong. I don't want you to give me an army. I already have plenty of soldiers. I just need the means to control them."

"You have an army?" Mr. Lawrence was taken aback. Exactly how much power did this Charlotte Parker hold?

"I have the perfect weapon. And with your help, ladies and gentlemen," Charlotte looked up to smile at the people around the table, "we can send these demon bastards back to where they came from. We'll use the one thing that will make us powerful enough to fight them." Charlotte paused, letting her words sink in. The audience waited eagerly, edging forward in their seats. "_Angels._"


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER 5**

2012

Heaven hadn't been the same since Michael's disappearance. Michael had been calling the shots for as long as most could remember. It was a sorrow filled day in heaven when Michael was lost to the pit along with Lucifer. The angels mourned the passing of their brother and leader. Nevertheless, it didn't take long for some to realize that a position of power was up for grabs.

The first to jump on the chance was Raphael. He faced much opposition, but others quickly fell in line behind their new leader, thankful to be receiving orders once again. Those who did not accept Raphael's leadership had gone rouge. Angels were being killed by other angels, some had vanished without a trace, and others had taken to actively rebelling against Raphael's forces. The latest offender was Balthazar who had somehow gotten his hands on heaven's arsenal. Castiel and his garrison were charged with hunting him down. They had been tracking him for a few days when he had suddenly disappeared, the trail stopping abruptly.

Castiel cringed upon received word that Raphael had requested them for an audience. Raphael was expecting results and Castiel had nothing but empty hands to show him.

He entered the audience hall, the four others of his garrison close at his heels. The room was bright white and trimmed with gold, a carpet running up the middle of the floor. Castiel's eyes were glued to the ground, and he fell to his knee where the gold carpet stopped, placing one hand on the ground to steady himself. He heard the others behind him do the same. Castiel lifted his eyes just enough to see Raphael's feet where he sat on his chair on the raised platform. Raphael was wearing a gold suit that sparkled under the light streaming though the windows of the hall. He was flanked by two angels on either side, their wings bared in a gesture of intimidation.

"Am I not a merciful leader?" Raphael began, his deep voiced projecting throughout the hall.

Castiel shuddered.

"Am I not fair? Am I not _just_?" The question was rhetorical, of course.

"Raphael-" Castiel started, surprising even himself when the name escaped his lips. He raised his head to meet Raphael's cold glare.

"Who was it who wiped your record clean, Castiel?" Raphael's voice was measured. "Who gave you a second chance when you deserved nothing? Were it not for you, we would all be living in paradise. It was foretold that Michael must defeat the Light Bringer, and you, and those Winchesters," Raphael added, sneering at the name, "are responsible for our brother's imprisonment."

Castiel's heart thumped in his ears, his cheeks reddening. He thought back to those days after Michael and Lucifer's confrontation. Castiel had followed them down through the flames to the prison made of bone and flesh. He gripped Sam tight and raised him up, soul and all. Then dumped him in a motel room just outside of Lawrence, Kansas with no memory of his time in the cage or the rescue. Sam was visibly shaken when he woke up alone on the scratchy comforter. Castiel stood invisible, watching while Sam while he called Dean's cell phone. It went straight to voicemail, so Sam called Bobby instead. He picked up on the second ring. As soon as Castiel was sure Sam was safe, he went straight to heaven.

He arrived back to find his home in chaos. Following Raphael had simply been the most logical option; the archangel already had a strong following. With the threat of the apocalypse behind them, heaven needed a firm leader, now more than ever. Moreover, Raphael had offered Castiel forgiveness, which Castiel graciously accepted. In return for his exoneration, Raphael had made Castiel pledge his devotion to heaven and promise not to interfere with _"those filthy Winchesters"_ anymore. So he reluctantly shut off the celestial channels, his connection to the Winchester brothers. As Raphael said, Castiel tried to convince himself, he had done them more than enough favors. Castiel was just glad that Raphael hadn't discovered how Sam had been saved. He didn't want to think about what would happen if Raphael ever discovered the truth. For now, he was just relieved that Raphael had been generous enough to let him come home after his disobedience.

Castiel swallowed uncomfortably in resignation, casting his eyes down once again.

"It pains me," Raphael continued, seeing he had put Castiel in his rightful place, "that there are those who question my leadership and seek to undermine my authority. I have been informed that you have let Balthazar escape."

A tremor ran through the angels kneeling at Raphael's feet.

"Castiel," Raphael's tone was harsh, "I put you in charge of this garrison for one purpose. Your mission was to find Balthazar and return our heavenly arson to its rightful place with me. Do you have any idea what would happen if our weapons were to fall into the wrong hands? Can you imagine the horrors that would befall your brothers and sisters if demons got ahold of them? It would be the death of us all." Raphael paused, allowing his words to linger in the air. He stood from his chair and loomed over the five angels on the ground. "Balthazar must be found. I will not allow such mutiny to go unpunished and the weapons must be recovered." Raphael gazed down at the crouched figures, "You may rise."

The angels scrambled to their feet. They stood straight-backed at attention, chins raised, eyes staring straight ahead like soldiers. They were soldiers: sworn to defend and ready to receive their mission.

Raphael continued, "Your orders are to return to Balthazar's last known location on Earth and find anything that will lead us to him. For your sakes I hope you don't disappoint me again. You are dismissed." Raphael sat down heavily.

Castiel focused his eyes, abandoning his practiced stare, and he was unable to hide the look of anxiety that ghosted over his features. He turned swiftly, steeling himself in determination, his trench coat snapping behind him as lead his troops from the hall.

* * *

The sun broke the horizon, flooding the street in light. The sky was cloudless and the sun's rays threw white tendrils of light into the air and across the ground, replacing the darkest shadows with the soft illumination of dawn. The field of tall grass was yellowing in the heat of the late summer. A soft breeze made the stalks sway, the field looked like some alien body of water rippling and coursing with life. It seemed endless, stretching out enough for the atmosphere to combine with the horizon far in the distance, an obscure golden haze the only thing to been seen for miles, save for a line of trees and a crumbling barn just within view. There, in a wide gap between the trunks, were the remains of an ancient cobblestone road. Weeds had forced their way through the cracks, spilling out onto the stones. Nature had its own way of fighting back. Man could construct roads and buildings, plow the fields and weed the gardens, but there was no force more persistent than nature itself. The road curved from the break in the trees up to the front of the barn, long forgotten. Birds flitted in and out of the holes in the roof in the early morning light, chirping shrilly as they bustled about.

The only indication of the sudden arrival of the visitors was a soft sound like a gust of wind and the rustling of Castiel's coat. The five angels seemed to appear out of thin air. They scanned the ruins of the decrepit barn. Once a bright red, the elements had battered the building until the paint had been drained of color and peeled back to reveal the rotting wood underneath.

Castiel turned to address the other four, "We should split up. You three go around to the back. We'll take the front," he gestured to the angel on his left. "Remember, if you find _anything_ that will help us locate Balthazar's next hiding place, alert the rest of the garrison immediately."

The others gave a nod in agreement.

Castiel cautiously made his way to the huge barn door, his shoes scraping against loose pebbles on the ground. He laid both hands on one of the doors and gave a powerful shove, expecting to meet resistance. Instead, the door swung inward easily, the rusty hinges creaking. The inside of the barn was shrouded in darkness. A few faint beams of light coming from the cracks and holes in the wood cut through the blackness. He could see the specks of dust floating lazily through the rays. Beyond that, Castiel could see nothing inside the barn.

Castiel felt the uncomfortable itching of unease in his stomach, but he squelched it down and took a step into the barn. He never saw the net coming. He gave a strangled cry of surprise and reached up to where the ropes were pressing into his face. He stumbled in his confusion and lost his balance, falling heavily to the ground, his arms too tangled to catch his fall. He trashed on the ground violently, kicking out with his legs and pushing the net away from his face with his palms. This only served to ensnare him even more in the ropes of the net. He heard loud, excited exclamations but the words were lost to him in his terror. The ropes were tightening around him, taking in the slack as Castiel struggled on the ground, making it harder for him to move. Shadowy figures were encircling him.

"Whoa, we got ourselves a wild one, fellas!"

"Hell, yeah!"

"David, do you have the tranq?"

"Yeah, it's right here."

"Well what are you waiting for? He's gonna hurt himself with all that bucking around."

Castiel felt the stab in his leg even before he heard the tranquilizer-gun fire. He yelled out in protest.

"Settle down buddy, you're not going anywhere."

He could already feel the tranquilizer taking effect. His mind stayed sharp, eyes searching for means of escape, but his limbs grew heavy. Castiel willed his body to move but he was quickly losing control of his muscles. Finally stilling enough to notice, he saw, hanging from the knotted rope of the net, countless silver pendants. He could just make out the Enochian symbols carved into the circular charms. Rough hands grabbed at his body and the ropes and hauled him off the ground. His head slumped back, cradled by the net. He could feel the drug ebbing into his brain while he tried to cling to consciousness. They dragged the limp creature out of the barn into the morning sun. The light blinded him and he was vaguely aware of being roughly tossed into a large metal cage in the bed of a pickup truck. The door was slammed shut, and through the bars Castiel could see the men covering the cage with a giant tarp before he was plunged into darkness. The sound of an engine roaring to life was the last piece of consciousness his brain registered before the drug pulled him away.

[A/N: Sorry for the longer than usual wait. I'm a bit busy at the moment so the next one might be a little longer, too. Hope you're enjoying the fic so far! Reviews are highly appreciated!]


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER 6**

September 2012

Things would have turned out a lot differently if by chance or stroke of good luck, Bobby or Sam had picked up the phone and dialed the prison back after receiving that devastating phone call. In fact, they would have been informed that Dean Winchester was very much alive. A prison official on the other end would have explained that no, no one had made a call to the residence in regards to Mr. Winchester. He'd been getting himself in to quite a lot a trouble with the other inmates, but nevertheless, he wasn't dead. Sam and Bobby would have been flooded with relief and then turned to investigating the source of the mysterious call. But the fates hadn't aligned that day, and so that wasn't what had happened. Luck had never sided with the Winchesters, it seemed. It had been more than a year since Sam and Bobby had received the phone call convincing them that Dean was dead, when in fact, Dean had been in prison all along.

Dean was still thinking about his little string ball when he heard the sounds of movement outside his cell.

_Finally_, Dean thought. It had been a long four weeks. Dean waited for the telltale jingling of the keys, the metallic clang as they were thrust into the lock of the door. But none came. Dean propped himself up on his elbows to listen. He heard what sounded like a small fan whirring to life and white smoke began to pour through the space between the door and concrete floor. Dean's eyes widened. They were trying to poison him! Dean jumped to his feet and yanked the sheet off the bed, holding it over his nose and mouth as he crossed the room. He stuffed the sheet into the space where the translucent white smoke was gushing in, having picked up its fever. The sheet did little to stop the flow of the smoke into the room. It was seeping through the cracks, hanging low to the ground, swirling around Dean's knees and feet where he knelt. He pulled his undershirt up to cover his face, but it wasn't much help. Dean could taste it now. It was too sweet; it burned the inside of his mouth and nostrils, and the back of his throat, making him gag. Blackness was closing around his vision. He was dying. His mind flew to Sam, his face the last thought Dean had before he collapsed.

* * *

Heaven? Hell? Before he died Dean wasn't sure where the afterlife would take him. He had saved countless innocent people. Yeah, he'd killed a lot too, but it was all in the name of good. Wasn't that enough to get him to heaven? On the other hand, he had sold his soul to a demon, so he supposed he really belonged down there.

Dean groaned and opened his eyes; it was dark. He blinked hard and opened his eyes again. There was something covering his face. He could tell he was sitting up in a stiff chair. His neck was sore from the way his head was hanging; he lifted his chin from his chest and brought his hands up to remove whatever was obscuring his vision. Suddenly, the rough fabric was being lifted off and he was blinded by the abrupt change in light. He blinked his eyes into focus. He was sitting at a metal table, much like the interrogation room from the police station, although this one had no mirror. Across the table stood a man who looked to be in his early thirties. He wore a gray suit and a light blue tie. He was clean-shaven and his dark brown hair was cropped close to his head. In one hand he held a black hood, which Dean realized had just been pulled off his head. In the other he held a folder, bold words emblazoned across the top.

"I'm not dead?" Dean asked groggily.

"Off the record?" said the man.

Dean groaned again and frowned, looking around.

The man gave him a stern look and then dove right into the conversation, "Look, I'll cut straight to the point. We know all about you, Dean Winchester."

Dean laughed then, "I seriously doubt it, buddy."

"I think you'd be surprised just how much I know, Dean. The monsters, the demons, the angels. It's no secret to us. We know about Michael and Lucifer's confrontation, and we know about you and you're brother's roles in the whole thing."

Dean looked confused, and then angry. "Wha-? How can you know that?"

"It's my job to know, Dean."

"Who are you?" Dean asked, narrowing his eyes.

"You can call me Logan. I work for a very special company. I'd like to be the first to welcome you to Blue Sky."

Dean closed his eyes, but when he opened them again the man hadn't disappeared like he had been hoping.

Logan waited for a response. When none came he continued, "We have a very important assignment for you, Dean."

Dean forced out another laugh. "Look, _Logan._ I'm just dying to help you out," his voice was dripping with sarcasm. "Unfortunately, I'm a little tied up with the whole being sentenced to die thing." Dean dropped his gaze to the hands in his lap, suddenly very interested in a scab on his knuckle.

"Hmm," Logan hummed, feigning a thoughtful look at the file in his hands. "Well, it says here that Dean Winchester died while in solitary confinement this morning."

Dean looked up from his hands and met Logan's eyes.

"Your death was officially ruled a heart attack by the prison coroner earlier today."

"Is this supposed to be a joke?"

"Like I said, Dean, we have a job for you."

"Oh, really?" Dean spat, "Well, I'm not interested. I don't know what kind of sick game you're playing, but I'm done."

Logan's voice was even when he spoke, "Dean, you're life was over. I'm here to offer you a new one."

Dean glared but said nothing.

"A lot has happened since Michael and Lucifer's showdown. The demons have become unruly; it seems Crowley is looking to expand his territory. The opposition had become overwhelming. Our forces just aren't strong enough to compete anymore. The human race is in danger," Logan paused for dramatic effect, trying to gauge Dean's reaction. "But we believe we have found the solution. We have the tools, we just need someone to wield them."

He had Dean's attention now. "And what is this secret weapon of yours?" Dean asked, wondering what answer this idiot and his company had cooked up.

"What better to fight demons than the most powerful weapon we have? Angels, Dean, _angels_," Logan finished, his eyes shining with excitement.

The honesty in the man's words made Dean erupt with laughter, his entire body shaking as he took deep breaths to regain control. He glanced at the sour look on Logan's face and said with a smirk, "Angels? You think angels are going to want to help us rid the Earth of demons? I'm sorry, but that's rich." He chuckled.

"The angels are floundering without proper leadership," said Logan seriously. "The loss of Michael has been hard on them. They are creatures of obedience; they _need_ to be given orders. They weren't meant to be making their own decisions. We can help them, we can give them guidance."

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news here, man. But there is no way the angels will listen to a bunch of humans. God may have told them to worship us, but they sure as hell don't want to serve us."

"That is a obstacle we are in the midst of dealing with."

Dean rolled his eyes. "If you play with fire, you can bet your ass you'll get burned. You think their gonna listen to just anyone?"

"No. You're exactly right, Dean. But we believe we are close to unlocking the secret of gaining control."

"And what's that?" Dean asked, playing along.

"We are aware that you and the angel Castiel have a special connection-a more powerful bond than most humans form with angels."

Dean scoffed, "I haven't seen Cas since that day in the graveyard. He stopped listening, never answered me after that day." He paused for a moment, thinking. "He's just another soldier. He doesn't give a shit about us, or me," he said mostly to himself.

Logan chose to ignore Dean's last comment and pressed on, "We believe your souls are somehow connected. If we can study your bond, learn from it, we may be able to understand what makes the link occur, and open a world of opportunity. We'll be able to get them to follow our orders. With the angels on our team, we'll be unbeatable."

"I'm not so sure the angels will go for being used as human bodyguards. I'll be damned if you get Cas to agree to that."

"You're missing the point, Dean," Logan said shortly.

Dean gave him a baffled look and shook his head a little, signaling that he didn't know what Logan was getting at.

Logan gave a small, eager smile, "If Blue Sky is successful, he won't have a choice."

"You want to _force_ the angels into helping us?" Dean gave sharp laugh. "You're insane!"

"Dean, with your help we'll be able to forge the right bonds, make the connections, take control."

"And what makes you think I'd be interested in something like that?"

"It's better than rotting in a cell, isn't it?"

Dean mulled this over. He didn't think trying to force the angels to do anything for humans was a very smart idea. He also didn't think there was a snowball's chance in hell of it working, so what the heck? Why not take the get out jail free pass? He'd give it his best shot and when they gave up he'd be on his merry way. "I'll agree on one condition," Dean said leaning forward in his chair.

"Anything."

"I want to see Sam. Now."

A flicker of distress crossed Logan's features. "Oh, Dean. I'm sorry, that isn't possible."

"What do you mean?"

"Crowley got to Sam before we could. He convinced Sam to join forces with him over a year ago, no one has heard from him since. We believe he's," Logan paused giving Dean a pained look, "dead."

Dean felt his insides twist into a knot and then begin to sink, pooling in his stomach. "No, that's impossible."

"I'm sorry. I truly am." And he really did seem sorry. He looked at Dean with pity in his eyes.

"You know what? Screw this," Dean jumped out of the chair and onto his feet. "Screw you, screw all of this. I don't have to be a part of your little game. Take me back, let me die there."

Logan had taken a small step backwards at Dean's outburst, but now he squared his shoulders and glared. "I'm sorry, Dean, I can't let that happen," Logan's voice was stronger now, his brow furrowing in determination. "We need you. The world needs you. People are suffering, you wouldn't just let them die while you feel sorry for yourself, would you?"

Dean gave him a look that said I-want-to-rip-your-arms-off. "Fuck you. Why is it my job to save them?"

"Look, we're giving you a second chance at life. You'd be crazy not to take it. You and Castiel, you're the missing link. We need you," he repeated softly.

The desperation in his voice was so strong that Dean was pulled out of his rage back to the room. Dean squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stop himself from what he was about to say. "Fine. I'll do it." He opened his eyes and saw Logan's look of triumph. Then he added, "Not that I think this is going to work. But I'll let you try to find your missing link."

"Thank you, Dean," Logan said, beaming, "I knew you'd make the right decision."

Dean huffed; it wasn't like he'd been given much of a choice.


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER 7**

September 2012

The pain was incredible. It was tearing him open. The burn radiated from his chest and stabbed at every inch of his body. It felt like lava through his veins. Every beat of his heart brought a wave of heat crashing down. He was screaming, screaming. His mind was white with pain. He was burning, on fire and _Castiel…_ He could hear an echoing, growing louder, drowning out the sound of the screams still pouring from his mouth. Tears welled in his eyes. _Why, why, why. Let it stop. Let it end._ He squeezed his eyes shut, his face screwed up in pain. There was a knife buried in his chest, he knew it. It was twisting and ripping… _Castiel… Castiel!_

His eyes snapped open. Huge hazel eyes were inches from his face, staring at him. Two hands gripped his shoulders firmly. A girl was straddling his stomach, her long auburn hair spilling onto his face. She gave him a shake, "Castiel!"

"Wha-?" His throat was dry and the word caught.

"Castiel!" She said, this time more cheerily, seeing that he was awake.

He cleared his throat, "Why are you saying that?" The words came out gravelly.

"Because it's your name, dummy. It says right here." The girl was way too chipper. She picked up a hand from his shoulder and grasped for something at his chest. She lifted it up to his face. He looked at the metal dog tag in her fingers. Letters spelling out CASTIEL were embossed into the metal. She dropped the tag, allowing it to hang from the chain around his neck.

"And I'm Anna." She grabbed for the tag at her chest and held it up to show him, "See?"

He squinted at her. "Well, _Anna_, do you mind getting off of me?"

"Oh, right, sorry."

Anna scrambled to stand next to him. He sat up, seeing that he had been lying on a bed in an unfamiliar room. He searched his mind, trying to understand, but there was… _nothing._ Nothing at all.

"Are you okay, Castiel?"

"Where am I?"

"It's okay, Castiel. You're new. Everyone starts out this way."

_Castiel, Castiel._ He didn't exactly recognize the name, but there was a warm feeling in his stomach when she said it. It sounded right.

"What's going on?"

"Don't worry. You're safe here." Her answers offered little information.

"Where are we?" He pressed.

"This is Eden."

_Eden,_ that sounded familiar. The word itched at the back of his mind. He tried to place it but still, his mind was blank.

"Come on," Anna said, grabbing his wrist and yanking on his arm.

He shifted his legs so they hung over the side of the bed and put his feet on the ground. He looked at Anna; she was wearing a white t-shirt and baggy white pants that cinched at her waist. He looked down to see that he was wearing the same.

"Come on!" Anna repeated, "We'll be late for attendance! We'll never get picked if we're late for attendance."

This girl was insane. Castiel shoved the thought from his mind as he allowed himself to be lead by Anna.

He could see a forest outside. They stepped out the front door and down the steps, joining a line of people in similar clothing who had gathered in a clearing not far away. Castiel looked over his shoulder to see that they had just come out of some sort of small cabin, all wood with a hunter green door and shutters. A silver number seven was hanging on the front of the door. All around the clearing were similar cabins, all with different numbers. Anna pushed her way up in the line, cramming herself between two annoyed looking men, one hand still firmly gripping Castiel's wrist.

"Number 4."

Castiel peeked around to the front of the line. Beyond the people in white was a woman wearing black pants and boots. Her shirt was a bright blue. Her black hair was cut in a short bob. At her hip were a radio and a hand gun. She held a strange gray and black object in her hands. _A scanner_, the word popped into Castiel's head suddenly. He wasn't sure where the thought had come from, but it sounded right. The man who stood next to her wore the same outfit but held a clipboard and pen in his hands. He watched as the woman faced a girl with a long blond ponytail at the front of the line. The woman with the black hair reached out to the dog tag hanging from the girl's neck and inspected it. She said something to the man at her side and he made a note on the clipboard. The black haired woman lifted her pointer finger in the air and circled its about, signaling for the girl to turn around. The girl obliged. The woman reached out to the girl's ponytail and moved it away from her neck, revealing what looked like a black bar code printed there. Castiel brought a hand up to touch the back of his own neck. The black-haired woman pointed the scanner at the bar code until it beeped.

"Next."

The line shuffled forward. When it was Castiel's turn he stood facing the black-haired woman. Her blue polo shirt had two words embroidered above the pocket, _Blue Sky._ She lifted the dog tag from around his neck. She turned to the man besider her, "Castiel. Number 7." She dropped the tag back on his chest. She motioned with her finger for him to turn around. He didn't move.

"Turn around," she said.

He didn't move.

The black-haired woman turned to look at her companion and then back at Castiel. "Oh, new guy, testing the boundaries, huh?" It startled him when her hand snaked out and she grabbed into his arm, her nails biting into his bare skin. With surprising force she spun him around. Once he was facing away from her, her boot connected with the back of his knees and his legs buckled. He fell to the ground kneeling, his knees yelling out in pain, and felt a rough hand grab the back of his head and force it down until his chin was touching his chest. The hand held his head there and he felt the cold metal of the scanner press into his neck. There was a sharp stinging sensation before the scanner beeped and the woman removed her hand.

He looked over his shoulder and glared at her.

"I suggest you find someone to show you the ropes, _Castiel_," she hissed the name, "before you get yourself hurt. Otherwise you'll never be chosen," she finished mockingly.

She looked back at the line, "Next."

After that, the rest of the day wasn't very eventful. Anna clung to him like a shadow, a very talkative shadow. "I've never shared my cabin before," she babbled. Castiel was only half listening. "It's my responsibility to show you around. You know, you really should be respectful of the Counters." Castiel shot her a sideways glance, but Anna didn't seem to notice. They settled on a picnic bench on the edge of the clearing. "They keep us safe, they give us shelter and food. What would we do without them? We should be thankful."

"Have you ever tried to 'do without them'?"

"No," Anna looked over at Castiel like he was an idiot, "Why would I do that?"

Castiel narrowed his eyes at her. The people here were weird. He hadn't been able to shake the shivery feeling he'd had since waking up. That feeling that there was something he had forgotten. Well, obviously he'd forgotten something. There was nothing in his mind at all. It was as if he hadn't existed before this, and then, suddenly, he was alive. But that was impossible. That wasn't how it worked, right? Actually, Castiel couldn't be sure, but he knew that something felt, well… _wrong_.

"Hey, Balthazar!"

Castiel was jerked out of his thoughts. _Balthazar? _And there it was again! That furious itching in his mind. It tingled and jumped. He knew that name. Why did he know that name?

"Anna," the man sounded bored. He was carrying three plastic cups awkwardly in his hands. "And… the new guy. Trouble-maker," Balthazar smiled and quirked an eyebrow at Castiel.

"Balthazar, this is Castiel. Castiel, Balthazar."

"A pleasure," Balthazar said, taking a seat next to Anna and setting the cups down. He passed one across the table to Castiel who nodded curtly in response and took a sip of water from his cup.

"I was just explaining the Counters to Castiel," Anna told Balthazar.

"Hmm. Yes, best to stay on their good side."

"Yeah, or you'll never get picked," Anna said to Castiel.

He gave her a baffled look, "Picked for what?" He swallowed another gulp of water.

"To go to the best place ever, Paradise." A dreamy look clouded Anna's eyes. "They say when you get there you love it so much that you never want to leave! I hope I'll get picked soon." Balthazar smiled at Anna warmly, she continued. "There's food, and soft beds, and cold drinks. It's beautiful there, Castiel. The sun is bright, the air is clean. They say the sky there is so blue you can't take your eyes off of it," she finished with a sigh and look of contentment.

"That does sound nice," Castiel said sincerely. He toyed with the empty cup in his hands. He just wished he knew why he felt so empty; maybe he wouldn't be so empty if he were chosen. Yes, that sounded nice, warm sun, soft beds, _Paradise_. Castiel smiled to himself and daydreamed about lying in a hammock under a sky un-obscured by treetops.

[A/N: The next chapter will be posted soon! Hope you're enjoying the story so far :) Reviews are greatly appreciated, I love to hear feedback!]


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER 8**

September 2012 ✶ _Dean_

Logan was still grinning at Dean from across the table. Dean was frowning and reminding himself to take deep breaths. He was still trying to process their conversation, replaying it in his mind.

So Sam had joined Crowley? _No._ Dean clenched his fist. He didn't want to believe it. Sam wasn't that stupid, was he? He hoped it wasn't true, but honestly, it wasn't entirely outlandish. It wouldn't be the first time Sam had sided with a demon. Ruby had weaseled her way into Sam's life, and that had happened even with Dean actively trying to stop him. It was Dean's job to protect his brother, keep him safe. He had screwed it up once and now it had happened again. Logan had said Sam joined Crowley. He had said Sam was _dead_. Dean couldn't decide what hurt more. The fact that Sam had disappeared and was assumed dead or that Sam had defied Dean again and teamed up with a demon. Ruby had turned Sam into a monster, and she was just a regular demon. Dean shuddered to think what Sam could become in the hands of the King of Hell. Well, Dean wouldn't believe it. Sam wasn't dead. He wasn't. Dean just needed to find him and bring him back. Sam was Dean's responsibility. He could save Sam. He _needed_ to save him.

But first, Dean would keep his promise to Logan. He would give them what they wanted and then get the hell out of there.

The sound of Logan's voice jogged Dean out of his thoughts. "Well, how about I show you where you'll be staying?"

"Staying?" Dean said, quirking an eyebrow.

Logan smiled and then turned. A loud buzzer sounded and then came the sound of the door automatically unlocking. Logan grabbed the knob and swung the door open. He looked back over his shoulder and motioned with one hand for Dean to follow.

Dean furrowed his brow but obliged, his hip bumping into the metal table as he crossed the room.

Logan turned right out of the door and moved from sight. Dean poked his head out of the room and was somewhat surprised to find that he was looking down an unfamiliar hallway. It looked nothing like the police station or the prison. He looked both ways; the hallway was lined with identical blue doors. To the left the hall continued for a while and then turned and disappeared from view. _What is this place?_ Dean thought to himself. He looked right and saw that Logan was already halfway down the hall. Dean hurried to catch up and fell into step a few feet behind Logan. The walls and floor of the hall were the same dark gray cement as the room they had just come from. Other passageways connected from either side to the path they were currently taking. The doors all had silver numbers and letters screwed in at eye level. Dean tried to decipher any pattern, but from what he could tell the combinations were random. Obviously this didn't hinder Logan's ability to navigate; he was taking more turns than Dean could keep track of. _Left, right… straight… left again… right, right. _Every hall was identical and Logan was moving too fast for Dean to stop and inspect the doors. This place was a fucking labyrinth.

As if he could sense Dean's tension, Logan began to speak. "Don't fret Dean."

Dean took a few quick paces to catch up and walk next to Logan. Logan shot him a sideways glance and then brought his eyes forward again.

"You don't have to worry about finding your way around. There will be someone to accompany you at all times."

"Where the hell are we?"

"I told you, this is Blue Sky."

"And?"

"And that's really all you need to know for now."

Dean was taken aback by Logan's short response. So much so that he almost knocked right into Logan's back when the man stopped suddenly.

Logan turned around, glancing briefly at the door in front of him before his eyes settled on Dean's face.

"These are your living quarters."

"Uhh…" Dean wasn't sure what to say.

"You'll stay here until I come for you. I have other business to attend to today."

A buzzer rang out and Dean could hear the door automatically unlock. Logan grabbed ahold of the knob and swung the door inward. Dean stretched his neck to look inside. Logan put a hand between Dean's shoulder blades and guided him forward. Once inside Dean turned around to look at Logan.

"I will be back for your debriefing at 4 o'clock. Make yourself comfortable," he finished before he turned and closed the door behind him. Dean heard the metallic click of the automatic lock sliding into place.

_What the…? Trapped like a rat._ He reached out and tested the doorknob. It didn't budge. _Well, fuck._ Dean wasn't sure what to think. One second Logan had been asking for Dean's help, the next he was being shut away in his "_quarters_." Dean looked around. There was a plain clock hanging above the door. It was only 11 o'clock. He had five hours to kill before Logan returned. He was pissed. He knew Logan was a jerk, but this was low. He was locked in his room like a child. The room was much like everything else Dean had seen in Blue Sky: gray. The walls and floor were gray concrete. There was a bed with a white comforter and pillows, a gray bedside table with a lamp, and a tall metal dresser.

Across the room from where Dean stood was another door, this one painted white. Dean strode across the room and opened the door revealing a bathroom with a sink, shower, and toilet. Peering into the shower he saw it was stocked with soap and shampoo. A bathroom all to himself! God, it had been quite a while since he had spent longer than five minutes under the water of a shower.

Dean reached in and turned the hot water on full blast. He stripped out of his orange jumpsuit, letting it bunch around his ankles in a dirty pile. He kicked it out of the way and pulled his undershirt over his head. The water was piping hot now, the steam clouding the mirror as he eased his way under the stream. Dean wasn't sure how long he stood under the water. He soaped and washed his body and then scrubbed his hair with the shampoo. His fingers were pruning by the time he reached to twist off the water. He grabbed the towel hanging from the rod and wrapped it around his waist.

He opened the door from the bathroom and the built-up steam followed him as he crossed the room to the dresser. He yanked open the top drawer to find neatly folded white t-shirts. _Hmm_, white wasn't really his style… He opened up the other drawers to find khaki pants, white boxers, and a white zip up sweatshirt. Okay, white would have to do. He pulled out a pair of boxers and pants and stepped into them.

Out of the top drawer he grabbed a white t-shirt and shook it out in his hands. Bold blue letters spelled out BLUE SKY in embroidered print on the left chest of the shirt. Dean rolled his eyes and pulled the shirt over his head.

The clothes fit perfectly. They knew what size clothing he wore? So the whole "job offer" was what? A show? They had known Dean would be arriving. They had prepared this room just for him. The drawers were full of clothes in his size; the bathroom was fully stocked… Dean wondered briefly what would have happened if he had outright refused to help. Dean pushed the thought out of his mind and sat down on the bed. He glanced at the bedside table. A small place card read "Welcome to Blue Sky." Dean grabbed the watch that was sitting on the table and put it on his wrist. What had he gotten himself into?

* * *

At exactly 4 o'clock a buzzer sounded and the door of Dean's room was unlocked. Dean, who was sitting on the bed, looked up to see Logan open the door and stroll in, followed by a man in a white lab coat with a stethoscope hanging around his neck and a black leather bag in one hand. Dean glanced at the man in the lab coat, his stomach knotting. The crisp white reminded him of the scrubs the medics wore. Dean stood and unconsciously took a few sideways steps away from Logan and the other man. Logan flashed a small smile, "Relax, Dean. This is Doctor Stein, he's just here to make sure you're in tip top condition."

Dean gulped. "I'm fine," he assured Logan.

"Standard procedure," Logan answered, "Now, sit."

Dean stood his ground, glaring when the doctor took a step toward him.

Logan opened his arms, palms held upward, "Dean, this is only going to be as difficult as you make it."

Dean considered his options and decided to forgo the fight for once, plopping down on the edge of the bed. It was better than being forced onto a stretcher, anyway, and he'd prefer to avoid that at all costs.

The doctor glided across the room to the bed, setting his bag down on the comforter next to Dean. Dean watched him unzip it and pull out a blood pressure cuff.

"I see you found your clothes," said Logan. Dean met his eyes.

"Yeah, good thing you were so prepared."

"We were confident you would choose correctly."

Dean pressed his lips together.

"You will find that Blue Sky values its assets."

"Assets?" Dean repeated.

"I'm looking at one of our finest."

Dean frowned, "Yeah, about that. Can we get this over with? No offense, but I'd like to speed this along." Dean jerked involuntarily as the doctor began to wrap the cuff around his arm. He settled and watched the doctor squeeze the air bulb. The cuff tightened around his arm.

Logan's voice caught Dean's attention, "This process is not meant to be rushed."

"Look, man, I'm tired of this cryptic shit. Tell me what's going on or I'm out."

"Dean, you are far from calling the shots here. You're in buddy-boy, there's no turning back now. You should be grateful that we pulled you out of that hellhole. You should show me some respect."

Dean rolled his eyes. Dean winced when the doctor slipped a hand under his shirt and held the cold stethoscope over his heart. "Well, how long is this supposed to take?" he pressed.

"Excuse me?"

"I said, how long is this going to take? A day? A week?"

"I don't think I heard you properly, are you talking to me? I believe you know how to properly address a superior."

Dean's expression went from confused to annoyed as he understood what Logan was getting at. _Superior my ass. _Logan really needed to get off his high horse. Dean played along, though, trying to get an answer, "How long is this going to take, _sir_," he said the last word through clenched teeth.

"Oh, that's what I thought you said," Logan smiled gloatingly. "We don't know exactly. We'd like to observe you first before examining the connection you share with the angel."

"Where is Ca-ahh!" Dean gasped as Doctor Stein jabbed a needle into the soft skin near his elbow, drawing a vile of blood.

"Give a guy a warning," Dean growled. The doctor looked unfazed by Dean's threatening tone.

Dean turned back to Logan, "Where is Cas, _sir?_"

"You'll see him soon enough. I think that's all for now?" Logan turned to the doctor who nodded once, packing up his bag.

"Cas is here?"

Logan looked thoughtful, "Not exactly." Dean wasn't sure what he meant by that.

"I'm sure you're hungry, Dean. Why don't we get you something to eat." It wasn't a question.

Dean stood from the bed and silently followed Logan as he opened the door and headed down the hall.

* * *

After passing about four hundred identical doors and taking countless turns, the hall opened into a well-lit area that reminded Dean of a high school cafeteria. The smell of food wafted to Dean's nose, making his mouth water. Logan led Dean to a table with two chairs and told him to stay. Dean took a seat and looked around. There were other tables in the cafeteria; each had two chairs. At each table there was a person dressed in a white shirt and khaki pants, just like Dean, and another person sitting across from them wearing a gray business outfit. Logan was walking toward him carrying a red tray. He set it down on the table and sat down in the other seat. He laid his arms on the table and touched the tips of his fingers together in front of his chest. Dean looked down at the tray in front of him. The plate had a colorful arrangement of food. There was chicken, and pasta with red sauce, a salad, a fruit cup, and a cup of water.

Dean looked up from the tray to Logan, "What's this?"

"Your meal."

"What, your not hungry?"

"I don't eat here."

"Well, do you mind going back and grabbing me a burger? Some of this looks like it was stolen from a rabbit. I'll take extra cheese and bacon, oh and stick a fried egg on top, will ya?"

Logan rubbed the tips of his fingers together. "This meal is formulated for to suit your specific dietary needs," Logan pointed to the little cup of vitamins that Dean hadn't noticed before, "All the essential nutrients."

"Eh, no thanks. I think I'll stick with the burger." Dean pushed the tray away from him.

Logan reached forward and slid the tray back in front of Dean. "That would be ill-advised. I suggest you eat now, breakfast isn't served until oh-seven hundred, and I know you haven't eaten since this morning. Plus, you'll need your strength. Training starts tomorrow."

Dean's stomach growled in response. The smell was making his mouth water, and the food certainly looked edible… Dean sighed and picked up a fork, jabbing it into the pile of pasta and twirling it in his fingers.

"Training?" he said, stuffing a huge bite of pasta in his mouth.

"Yes, you will join the others for mandatory training tomorrow. And then we will go over the specifics of your assignment."

Dean chewed the pasta and glanced around. With his mouth still half full he asked, "Who are all these people?"

Logan looked put off by the sight of Dean speaking through the pasta but he huffed and answered anyway. "They are recruits, like you. You didn't think you were the only one asked to help, did you? And their… mentors," Logan finished after a pause, "Like me."

Dean swallowed, "Mentor?"

"Yes, we're here to show you the ropes, keep you out of trouble, etcetera, etcetera. My job description doesn't usually involve handling new recruits, but for you, we made an exception."

_Course I'm stuck with this high and mighty jerk for a "mentor," _Dean thought to himself. But at least Logan had reigned it in compared to earlier, so all he said was,"Oh, I'm flattered." The words dripped with sarcasm.

Logan was stony faced, "Eat your dinner."

Dean ate silently for a while and then took a long drink of water. It tasted like fluoride. _Delicious._ Logan pushed the little cup of pills toward Dean's hand. Dean decided to follow the silent order without fussing. He downed the pills along with another gulp of water. Logan was gazing around the room now, and Dean joined in. Some of the mentors were sitting straight backed, eyes fixed on some unseen point in space while their recruits ate, others chatted casually, leaning forward to talk.

Dean went back to clearing his plate; he even ate a few bites of the salad, after smothering it in ranch dressing. He leaned back in his chair, his stomach content for the first time in… well, years. Maybe Blue Sky wasn't all bad. Dean imagined persuading Logan to get him a burger. Hey, a guy could dream. The thought didn't seem entirely unobtainable.

"Done?" Logan asked.

"Yes, sir." Dean said automatically, snapping out of his daydream, surprising himself when the words left his lips. His father had always been insistent on good manners. Logan's stern look and the inflection in his words brought out Dean's well-ingrained reflexive response.

Logan stood and gathered the tray in his hands, telling Dean to stay put. Dean looked around and saw the couples leaving the cafeteria. The recruits and mentors, leaving by pair. Some walked side by side, while others followed a pace behind their mentors.

Logan reappeared and Dean stood wordlessly, following Logan out of the cafeteria.

When they finally reach the door to Dean's quarters, his stomach was heavy with food, a drowsy feeling nagging at his eyelids. It had been a long day. Logan stopped in front of the door and Dean read the silver label that was screwed there: DC007.

"Hey, double oh-seven. Bond. James Bond," Dean curled one corner of his mouth up in a half-smile.

Dean almost missed Logan's subtle eye roll, almost. The buzzer rang out and the door was unlocked. Logan stood with his arms behind his back as Dean entered the room. Dean dropped heavily onto the bed.

"Lights out is at nine. I will see you tomorrow at six thirty A.M. to accompany you to breakfast."

With that, Logan let the door slam shut and Dean was alone again.


	9. Chapter 9

[A/N: This started off as a small idea, I never imagined it would get this long. But wow, I just can't stop. I hope you're enjoying. I shall forever refer to this chapter as the one that refused to be written as well as the longest chapter ever (that's to make up for taking so long). Sorry for the sporadic posting, I have been participating in the SPNArtChallenge on tumblr most recently so that has taking up a lot of my time. You should totally check out the tag on tumblr, it's pretty cool! Anyway… back to the story!]

* * *

**CHAPTER 9**

Early Summer 2011 ✶ _Sam_

_ He could save Dean? And all Crowley wanted him to do was give the angels someone to listen to? Sam thought it sounded too good to be true, there had to be a catch, but for the life of him he couldn't figure out what it was, and honestly, he didn't care. Sam's face hardened as he found his resolve. He would do whatever he could to save his brother. "Fine. You've got a deal."_

_ Crowley looked smug. He bent his elbow bringing his hand level with his face, his thumb touching his fingers. "Well then. Let's get started." He snapped his fingers and he and Sam vanished._

Sam landed hard on his hands and knees with Crowley standing next to him. Sam looked around. He didn't recognize the place, but from the tall ceilings lined with wooden beams and the huge fireplace topped with a pair of deer antlers, Sam guessed it was some sort of ski lodge. Sam twisted his head to look back at Crowley. A hundred questions fought for dominance on his lips. But before he could put his jumbled thoughts into words, Crowley simply said, "Sit tight Moose, I'll be back," before disappearing into the air.

Left staring into empty space, Sam stood and dusted off the knees of his jeans. He listened but heard nothing. The place seemed deserted. The entrance hall where Crowley had dumped him was dark. Blue shadows from the light of the moon spread out from the floor length windows beside an immense wooden double door. The room was huge, the lofty ceilings high above Sam. The floor was a stone jigsaw, held together with cement filling. A huge wooden beam ran from the door to the fireplace, other beams stuck out perpendicularly to the first, sloping downward to form a peaked ceiling with slanted sides. The fireplace was empty, and Sam saw that it was large enough for a child to walk about inside. Two curving staircases lined the side of the hall, trailing away into shadowy hallways. Sam turned to face the huge front door and opened one side with a forceful pull. Sam was met with a cold gust of air and snowflakes. The door led to… nothing? If there was a pathway leading away from the door it was too far under the snowdrift to make out. Mountains and snow-covered trees rose up in the distance. Sam considered leaving, but it was dark, and he wasn't even wearing a coat. So he decided against it.

Sam eased the door shut and looked back to the staircases. Might as well look around. Hours later Sam had confirmed his original guess that his was some sort of ski lodge. Though, there was no one to be found; the place was entirely deserted. Still, the lights were functional, and that was reassuring as the evening gave way to black nighttime. Among the countless rooms Sam discovered a fully stocked kitchen, numerous bedrooms, bathrooms, sitting rooms, and to his delight, an enormous double story library with cushy armchairs and reading lamps.

That was where Crowley found Sam the next day, curled up asleep on an armchair with a book draped open in his hand.

"Good morning, sleeping beauty."

Sam jerked awake; the book flew out of his hand and landed on the floor with a thud.

"What the hell, Crowley?" Sam said rubbing his eyes with both hands, "Where did you go?"

"Time to wake up, I've brought you a little something."

"Why did you bring me here? And where is _here_?" Sam asked the questions from last night spilling from his mouth.

"You're _here_ for safe-keeping. This place," Crowley gestured around the room, "is entirely hidden, I've made sure of it. No one can find it unless I bring them."

Sam screwed up his face into a frown, "I don't need safe-keeping."

"_Au contrarie_. I myself am surprised you have stayed safe this long. I assume it's only the sigils on your ribs and dear old Bobby's house that have kept the angels away. But you should consider yourself lucky. From my understanding the angels upstairs are not exactly thrilled about the whole diverting the apocalypse thing. I'm sure there's one or two that would like to get their hands on you. You'll have to be stronger to face them, or they'll smite you where you stand without a second thought."

"I've made it this far, haven't I?" Sam countered.

Crowley snorted. "The plan is for you to lead the angels, right? There won't be much leading if they kill you before you can get a word in."

"And what do you suggest we do to make them listen?"

"Make you harder to kill, of course."

Sam furrowed his brow in confusion and annoyance.

"Uh!" exclaimed Crowley. "Open your mind, consider your options. Here, like I said, I went to fetch you a welcoming gift."

A young woman stepped out from behind Crowley into Sam's view. She was gorgeous. Her long blond hair spilled in loose curls over her shoulders, and her low cut red dress clung tightly to her body.

Sam's mouth dropped open. "Um, no Crowley. I couldn't. You can't just _give_ her to me."

"Oh, you moron. Get your mind out of the gutter." Crowley grabbed the girl's arm and with the other hand produced a knife from his jacket pocket. In one swift motion he sliced open the flesh of her mid forearm. She gasped and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, they were entirely back.

It was Sam's turn to gasp then, "A demon!"

"Yep," Crowley said, tugging the girl closer to Sam and offering him her arm, "Just for you. Drink up, butter-cup." Sam balked, scrambling to right himself and stand out of the armchair.

"No!"

Crowley rolled his eyes, "Uh, yes."

"I can't do that, Crowley. Dean would be furious!"

"Quit being such a baby. You're doing this _for_ Dean, remember?"

"I don't remember this being part of the deal," Sam retorted.

"Well, you can't expect the angels to just listen to you. You're not exactly on good terms with them right now."

Sam looked torn, so Crowley continued, "You do this form me, we'll have our chat with the angels, they will accept you as a rightful leader, and I'll pull Dean out of hell. It's a fair trade."

That plan seemed to have a few holes but Sam's mind was rushing, not letting him think. He responded frantically, "But why!? Why this?"

"The angels already know you're an abomination. Why not embrace this and use the power Azazel gifted to you?"

"It's not a gift. It's a curse," spat Sam.

"_Open your mind_, Moose. You've barely scratched the surface of your potential. You've met others like you, right? You can do everything they could and more, you just have to accept it."

Sam still wasn't convinced. His hardened expression was softening into one of desperation, "Please, Crowley."

Crowley was still holding the demon's bleeding arm out to Sam.

"You disappoint me, Sam," the name sounded strange coming from his lips. Sam took a shuddering breath. "Just like you disappoint everyone else. Your father. Dean. Everyone. You'll drink, or the deal's off," Crowley finished in a whisper. Only the sound of the demon's panting breath could be heard. Tears were welling in Sam's eyes now, threatening to spill out.

"No, please, don't."

"It doesn't have to be this way Sam. I believe in you. Embrace your destiny. I know you can do this. I know you won't let me down."

"No," Sam said again. He paused, considering, before adding, "I won't." Sam's mind was rushing, spinning, whirling. Crowley was right; all he ever did was let people down. But not this time. He would do whatever it took to save Dean. He would follow Crowley's direction. _For once_ he wouldn't be a disappointment.

Slowly, Sam climbed out of the armchair and knelt in from of the demon. Sam didn't spare a glance at Crowley, but if he had, he would have seen a smile appear across his lips.

Sam took her arm in his hands, his long fingers easily wrapping around the vessel's small wrist. He looked down at the blood welling from the gash. He could smell the tangy iron of it already. He brought his lips down to her arm and covered the cut with his mouth. His tongue gently skimmed her bleeding wound. As soon as the blood passed his lips, something inside of him took control. Sam slowly sucked at her arm, teeth scraping carefully against the skin while he gulped down the warm liquid. His head was filled with the pounding of her heartbeat.

The demon hissed but didn't pull away as Sam took long drags from her arm.

After a while Crowley murmured softly, "That's enough."

But Sam was swallowing faster now, biting and pulling at the demon's arm. She let out a squeak of pain.

"I said, enough!" Crowley shouted, grabbing Sam's shoulder and pulling him back hard.

Sam fell, panting. His whole body was bathed in the warmth of adrenaline. He licked his lips and was rewarded with a few spare drops.

"We'll take it slowly," Crowley said. He turned to the demon, "Go clean yourself up." Turning back to Sam as the demon made her way from the library, he said, "Don't want to bleed her dry."

The rushing in Sam's ears hadn't fully stopped yet, though, so he barley heard him.

"'Atta boy," Crowley clapped him on the shoulder.

_God, _Sam had to admit, it felt good. He could feel the demon's blood pumping through his body already. Though it had been warm as he drank from the demon's arm, it spread icy cold through his veins. He could feel the new power inside him as he flexed his fingers. The whirring in his head was quieting. He looked up at Crowley from where he knelt.

"I'm proud of you Sam." _Proud_. Sam had heard that once a long time ago, from Dean. Sam smiled and closed his eyes, basking in the glow of those words. They were so foreign to his ears. And so nice to hear.

* * *

December 2012 ✶

The air in the room was absolutely freezing, but either Sam didn't notice or didn't care. He was sitting in a huge armchair that he had dragged in front of the window. The sky behind the glass was dark, but the moonlight casting upon the snow made every surface glow. The flakes were still coming down, lazily, like they had been for the last few months. It snowed almost the entire year here, the ground frozen solid beneath feet of packed ice and snow. The trees were drooping, heavy with icicles formed on a day sunny enough to melt the snow, ultimately falling victim to the cold and freezing again, tapering into vicious points.

It had been more than a year since his first day at the lodge. Sam had long ago deduced that the lodge was somewhere high in the mountains, but that was the extent of his knowledge. Sam hadn't been anywhere but the lodge and the surrounding area since his arrival. It was the longest time he had ever spent in one place since Stanford. The monotony was a change of pace for Sam, and he found that he enjoyed it. After a brief argument, Sam had accepted Crowley's refusal to let him have his laptop and cell phone. Instead, Sam buried himself in the books of the library. Sam made a shelf of his favorites, the pages creased and dog-eared where he marked the passages. His favorite armchair was set underneath the best reading lamp, facing the window, just how Sam liked it. It was in these little ways that Sam made the lodge his first real home. He'd picked out a bedroom, and could occasionally be found in the kitchen, but the library was his favorite place. And that's where he now sat. Although, currently no books could hold his interest.

Sam scanned the scene for what felt like the millionth time. Crowley hadn't been around for the last few days. Sam was presently trying to subdue his feelings of loneliness. He was getting anxious. He always felt nervous when Crowley left. _What if he doesn't come back? I've disappointed him somehow. What if he leaves me here forever? _It wasn't unusual for Crowley to leave Sam alone. He'd leave for a while, usually returning with a new supply of blood for Sam in the form of a demon.

Sam had been on Crowley's strict demon blood regiment for over a year now. In that time Sam discovered that Crowley had been right. His powers didn't end with exorcisms and killing demons. He had mastered telekinesis first. In fact, that had come quite naturally. Sam supposed that was because he'd already sort of been able to do that before. Then came telepathy. That was shortly followed by the ability to inflict physical pain with his mind. Sam had discovered that one accidentally after Crowley brought him a particularly ornery demon to feed on. At first it had made him uncomfortable—the fact that he could cause pain with less than a thought—but Sam felt stronger than ever before, and soon he accepted it like he had accepted his other talents. He was learning new things every day, each dose of demon blood opening passages and networks inside him that he never even knew existed. Sam felt powerful, and he liked it.

However, right now Sam's hands were starting to shake; the first sign of coming down. He hadn't had a hit of demon blood in days and it was starting to get to him. Sam's idle fingers twitched. He leaned forward and blew a cold breath against the windowpane. Frost formed immediately, fogging the window and obscuring the view. Sam lifted an unsteady finger and drew out a shaky "S A M." He sighed and let his hand drop back into his lap.

Crowley had been uncharacteristically happy in the days before he left. And when Crowley was happy, Sam was happy. Crowley was the only one who ever really believed in him, believed he could be something great. _Embrace your destiny._ And Sam listened; he had embraced it, because it was what Crowley wanted. He wouldn't let Crowley down. It was the only thought in Sam's head. Sam hardly remembered life before the lodge. There were foggy memories of hunting with Dean, crappy motel rooms, and long car rides. But those things didn't matter anymore. All that mattered to Sam was keeping his promise to Crowley. He would make him proud. Crowley would be the one person Sam didn't disappoint. And so Sam did everything Crowley told him to do. He had struggled at first with Crowley's insistence on drinking demon blood, but he had quickly realized that Crowley was right, this was the only way for Sam to be able to face the angels. Sam was drinking more and more every time; now he was drinking from three demons in one sitting. If the demons were unhappy about the situation they weren't about to say anything in front of Crowley. And as Sam's strength grew, he noticed the demons grow complacent under his gaze as well. Which was smart on their part, honestly, because with the amount of demon blood coursing through his veins, he could have killed them with just a look. Yet despite his developing power, Sam felt helpless when Crowley left.

Sam was worried. _Where was Crowley?_ He was there one day and then suddenly he was gone, leaving Sam to wrack his brain for what he could have done wrong. He must have done something. He had disappointed Crowley somehow. The thought made Sam's insides squirm. He hadn't even been given a chance to make it up to him. He stared at the fogged window.

"Sam!" he heard Crowley's voice echoing through the hall to the open door of the library.

Sam breathed out a sigh of relief. His lungs were sore after releasing out the air he hadn't realized he'd been holding in. Sam made his way out of the library and down the hallway to the top of the stairs. He latched one hand on the door jam and leaned out into the doorway of the entrance hall. His eyes immediately found Crowley where he was standing in front of that massive main door.

"You're back," his voice was youthful with excitement.

"Of course," Crowley said with a wide smile. He spread his arms, "I always come back."

But Sam's momentary happiness at Crowley's return was cut short when he noticed another figure standing in the hall. Sam recognized the man who was standing in a flaming ring of what Sam guessed was holy fire. The firelight cast a subtle glow on his dark skin while throwing broken shadows on the floor and walls.

The man spoke after meeting Sam's eyes, "The elusive Sam Winchester." His voice was smooth and rumbling, like distant thunder. The words came out much calmer than he looked, "Have you been enjoying your extended vacation?"

"Raphael," Sam responded curtly. He turned to address Crowley, "What is he doing here?"

Crowley had been watching the interaction from aside, smiling slightly. He glanced back at Raphael before turning to Sam to answer, "It is time we make good on our deal, Moose."

"And what exactly does that mean?" Raphael stole the words out of Sam's mouth.

Crowley glared at Raphael. Raphael returned the look with a hard stare, continuing, "I demand to know why I've been summoned here to be held prisoner by the likes of you."

Crowley's expression hardened into one of malice, "You're not in much of position to make demands."

Raphael snapped his mouth shut with a click, pressing his lips into a thin line. He shifted his weight back and forth uncomfortably.

"I am," Crowley paused, "displeased with the recent interactions between my demons and your brethren. It would seem that many of them have fallen in the hands of your armies," Crowley finished tersely.

Raphael's eyes flashed, "You should know the demons have become unruly. Having a hard time keeping your grunts under control Crowley?" he asked, sneering.

Crowley looked like he was going to laugh, "Who said I didn't want them on Earth? It's quite the opposite, actually. In fact, I have brought you here to make my official announcement. I believe the divides between demons, humans, and angels have caused issues where there truly should be none. Would it not be better to live harmoniously, under one leader? It is with this in mind that I hereby declare myself King of Hell and Ruler of Earth. Furthermore—"

Raphael cut him off with a laugh of surprise, "And who gave _you_,_ a demon_, the right to rule over my father's creation?"

"Well, first of all, I _am_ King of Hell, so I have quite a lot of experience with ruling. But since you asked, no one _gave_ me the right. Isn't that the idea, though? No one's telling us right from wrong. Your father abandoned you long ago and now you squabble over power. I'll am an experienced leader, there is no one better suited than I to take on such a job. I mean, admit it, humans are much closer in nature to demons than to angels. Just look around: the lies, the betrayal, the self-serving nature. Humans have the same potential for evil as demons. What's really the difference between a human and a demon anyway?"

Raphael seemed unable to come up with a good answer.

"Now, if you don't mind. As I was saying, furthermore, I nominate Sam Winchester," Crowley looked away from Raphael to meet Sam's eyes, "as my right-hand man, to lead heaven in my stead."

"What!?" Raphael exclaimed. The shocked look on his face seemed to amuse Crowley.

"Raphael, this is the very man who defeated Lucifer. Do you question his ability to lead?"

"Defeated my brother? You can't know that. But even if it is true, he also prevented the apocalypse! And as it is written so it shall be!" Raphael spat out the words. "Thanks to him," he thrust a pointed finger toward Sam, "we are lost! We have strayed from the word of God. We have no direction. We cannot even guess what is to come."

"I am well aware of the struggles you face," Crowley said carefully. "Which is exactly why I am proposing Sam here takes charge. And his first order of business in mending this rocky relationship will be relaying the message that demons are not to be killed by angels. And you will support him."

Raphael was reeling now, "And why would I allow that?"

"Oh, I wouldn't be so quick to refuse an order from the Sam," Crowley smiled and looked at Sam who had been listening carefully to the entire conversation.

Raphael rounded on Sam, "You? Why should I fear you? You are as insignificant as an insect to me. I have no reason to fear a human."

"But I'm so much more than that now. Crowley has helped me become who I was meant to be. _This_ is my destiny." Sam closed his eyes and inhaled, filling his lungs. Despite the long time since his last dose of blood, he could feel his own power stirring in his muscles, tingling. The lights in the room flickered on and off. He opened his eyes again and exhaled slowly. The lights were flashing now, _off: _the flames the holy fire blazed, _on:_ the room illuminated and Sam could see Raphael's stone expression clearly, _off, on, off, on…_ The walls began to tremble, the lodge was groaning and creaking. The chandelier hanging above them jingled as it swayed wildly and the crystals knocked together. Dust and debris were falling from the ceiling, clouding the air. Satisfied, Sam took another breath in and exhaled again, bending his arms at the elbows and raising his hands. The room quieted and the dust settled. Sam pulled one side of his mouth into a smile.

Raphael was glaring, "Flickering lights and shaking buildings, that's the best you can do?" The words tumbled out of his mouth more quickly than he had intended, revealing his nervousness under his steely facade.

Sam smiled wider knowingly, "No, but I don't think you'd want to see my best, since I could kill you where you stand as easily as I can snap my fingers."

Sam noticed Raphael's quick intake of breath.

Crowley spoke then, "You didn't think his powers only worked on demons, did you? What good would he have been as a vessel to Lucifer if his powers did not also work on angels?"

"You keep your attack dog away from me."

Sam looked ruffled by the comment, he opened his mouth to say something, but Crowley spoke first, "No problem. You do your part, and no harm will come to you."

Raphael composed himself before speaking, "Well, it doesn't matter, the angels who are going after your demons are operating on their own accord. I have issued no orders against the demons. My energies are concentrated on reorganizing heaven."

Neither Sam nor Crowley replied. "And what's more," Raphael offered quickly, "Angels have been consistently disappearing for over two years now. I've been looking for them endlessly. I recently sent a team to investigate a disappearance, and they returned a member short, claiming ambush! Unfortunately," Raphael looked annoyed, almost rolling his eyes, "They fled before finding out any useful information. My resources are limited, and I have no leads on why the angels are disappearing. What little reserve of faith my followers have in me is quickly draining. There is no chance they would listen if I told them to take orders from a Winchester."

"That is," Crowley paused, "unfortunate. However, unless you'd like to be deep fried in holy oil, I suggest you figure out how to make this work. Quickly."

Raphael looked distressed and then abruptly very excited. A thought had suddenly come to his head, "I may be able to win them over if they know I hold the power of heaven's arsenal."

"And you don't already?" Sam asked.

"No," Raphael said bitterly. "The weapons were stolen and the culprit vanished before we could find and question him."

"Well done," said Crowley with a smirk.

"Fine," said Sam.

"What?" Crowley shot him a glance.

"Fine, we'll help find the weapons. If the power of the weapons is what it takes to win over heaven, then we have to do it." Sam looked from Crowley back to Raphael, "So what do you say? Do you think we can work together on this?"

Raphael, trying to hold onto what little dignity he had left, admitted, "It would seem I do not have much of a choice."

"I think I'd have to agree," Sam said, his smile curling around the words.

"Perfect," Crowley purred, "I'll draw up the contract."

Raphael grimaced.


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER 10**

September 2012 ✶ _Dean_

Dean turned away from the door that had just been slammed in his face. He spotted a pair of pajamas neatly folded on his pillow and slipped them on. He turned off the bathroom light, but he couldn't find the light switch for the bedroom. Dean lay down in the bed with his arms stretched up, hands tucked under his head. He was just starting to get annoyed with the whole light switch situation when it turned out not to be a problem at all. The lights shut off automatically when the clock above the door struck 9 o'clock. Dean rolled onto his side and made himself comfortable. His brain made a half-hearted attempt to rev, thoughts of Sam and Bobby and Castiel and the events of the day vying for his attention. It seemed his plan to get out of here and find Sam was going to be put on an extended hold. But he was too tired to think at all, he found, and sleep pulled him under quickly and thoroughly. For the first time since being sent to prison, Dean's enjoyed a peaceful, dreamless night's sleep.

The next morning he felt so well rested that he was only mildly bothered when the lights turned on at 6 o'clock sharp, jogging him out of his deep sleep.

He showered and dressed in an outfit identical to the one he had put on yesterday, grabbing the white sweatshirt out of the bottom drawer as an afterthought. Glancing at the clock he decided to start the day off on Logan's good side. He picked up his discarded clothes from yesterday and his pajamas, stuffing them in the hamper in the bathroom. He had just finished making the bed in a way that would have made John Winchester's quarter bounce sky high when the buzzer sounded and Logan opened the door.

"Good morning. I trust you slept well." Logan was dressed in another gray suit and white shirt. Today his tie was a royal blue. Logan didn't wait for an answer; he simply turned and started down the hallway, forcing Dean to jog in order to catch up.

Dean ate his breakfast quietly while Logan intermittently watched and looked around the cafeteria.

Finally Logan broke the silence, "First thing on the agenda is mandatory training with the other recruits. Then we'll begin your personalized program." He looked at Dean expectantly.

Dean nodded and picked up his glass of orange juice, bringing it to his lips.

"Dean, you might want to brush up on those manners of yours. Not everyone here is as lenient as I am."

Dean snorted into his orange juice, sloshing it on the table. Logan wasn't exactly a bucket of sunshine. "Uh, sorry," Dean said, a bit of orange juice still dribbling down his chin. Then he added, "_Sir_," for good measure.

"It's not funny, Dean. I'm entirely serious. You better watch your step."

"Yes, sir," Dean murmured as he began mopping up the puddle of juice on the table.

It turned out Logan had been telling the truth. It seemed Blue Sky did not approve of mouthing off or forgetting one's manners. Dean's arms were sore, lying by his sides lifelessly. The drill instructor had yelled in Dean's face and then ordered him to do fifty pushups, _three times_. Dean wasn't about to forget to add "sir" anytime soon. He considered himself to be in pretty good shape, but the training had been rigorous, consisting of a seven mile run around the indoor track, one-on-one sparring, and hundreds of crunches and jumping jacks among other cardio exercises. Dean's chest was heaving by the time they were finished. It definitely wasn't easy for the other recruits, but they hadn't been ordered to drop and count out three sets of pushups either. Dean wasn't unfamiliar with physical punishments, his father had never skimped on the opportunity to teach his sons a lesson with an extra lap around the track or a few, _dozen_, more pushups. But God, it had been a long time since that and Dean was not as young as he used to be. The side of his face was pressed uncomfortably on the sparring mat, but he was too tired to pick up his head. His breath was ragged and he panted, trying to regain his composure.

"Winchester. Your mommy is here for you," the mocking voice of the drill instructor boomed through the indoor gym. He could hear a few recruits snickering. Dean opened his eyes, squinting. Sweat dripped in, making them sting. Logan's black loafers were inches from his face. Dean glanced up with his eyes, his head too heavy to move. Logan was standing next to the instructor with his arms folded.

"Thanks, Joe," Logan spoke to the instructor, "I've got it from here."

_Joe._ Dean had seen the face of evil, and its name was Joe. Dean watched the bulky man stalk away.

Logan reached out a hand that Dean eyed critically before latching onto. Logan helped him heave himself off the ground. "So, how was your first day?" He was smiling like a parent asking what their child learned at kindergarten.

"Sucked like," Dean panted. There weren't words to describe it. "That sucked." Then he hastily added, "sir," when his arms throbbed.

"We'll get you back into peak shape in no time," responded Logan, his eyes crinkling when he smiled broadly. Logan clapped a hand on Dean's shoulder and it took all of Dean's will power to prevent his knees from buckling.

Dean followed Logan out of the gym, but not before shooting Joe a glare over his shoulder.

Logan escorted Dean back to his room, giving him an hour to shower and change. Then Logan took Dean to get his lunch before his "personalized program." Dean was crossing his fingers, hoping that it wasn't another workout.

"You know," Dean said as Logan led him through the maze of hallways, "If you gave me a map or something I could probably manage on my own."

"That's entirely unnecessary," Logan answered, peering over at him. "Recruits are required to be supervised at all times. We wouldn't want anything to happen to you."

Dean mulled that over. How much trouble could you really get into when all the hallways lead to nothing but locked doors? Dean suspected it was more a method of insuring that the recruits were kept in line. It was easier to miss a training session when there wasn't someone holding your hand and taking you there.

Dean knew that from personal experience. His father had always left workouts and a list of chores when he would go away on a hunt for more than one day. Dean and Sam had a mutual agreement that what their father didn't know wouldn't kill him. It wasn't _lying_ if he didn't ask. As long as the chores were finished and the motel still looked presentable by the time their father got back, both boys were content to spend the afternoons watching cartoons rather than running laps. They only had problems when John would pointedly asked Dean how training had gone while he was away. Sam was perfectly comfortable lying though his teeth when he was questioned, but Dean on the other hand… his skin crawled under his father's harsh gaze. That deer-in-the-headlights look that would appear on Dean's face was Sam's signal to start lacing his sneakers. Stupid Dean wouldn't be able to lie straight faced to their father even if Sam had bribed him. They would have to do all the workouts they missed, plus whatever John felt like tacking on at the end, usually culminating in being grounded. But for all the times they were caught, it was totally worth the few they got away with it.

The memory faded from Dean's mind when Logan stopped in front of a door and swung it open. The room had two light blue couches facing a low rectangular coffee table. One wall of the room had a huge mirror. Dean suspected there were people on the other side, watching as he followed Logan into the room and sat down on the couch opposite him.

"So, Dean," Logan began immediately. "I know you have a lot of questions. Right now I'm going to explain a few things about your assignment and how you are going to help Blue Sky achieve its goals. So try your best to listen politely. The main goal, as I explained yesterday, is for us to be able to take on a position of leadership in the eyes of the angels."

Dean took the soonest opportunity to cut in, "You mean you want to be able to boss them around. I still think that is the craziest idea I have ever heard."

"It may seem crazy, but with the technology we have available to us, and the advances Blue Sky has very recently made, we believe this goal is within reach. We know the angels won't listen to us willingly, at least not at first. But once they see that we are working for the greater good, for both their sakes and our own, we are confident they will be willing to listen to our judgment calls."

"And if they still don't trust your judgment?"

"Well, it won't really matter."

Dean shot him a questioning look and Logan continued, "This technology will give humans the power to command an angel, much like a superior would dole out commands to them in heaven. They will believe our word to be law. Essentially, we will be able to control our most powerful weapon against demons."

"How exactly do you plan on doing that?"

"A generic procedure has not been established. So for now, each connection must be individually cultivated. This is why we have decided to use you as the first run of our new and improved program. You and the angel Castiel already share a strong bond. You are only a few steps away from achieving our goals. We have… specialists on the case right now, in the midst of refining the method."

"When you say specialists?"

"Yes, I mean witches and the like."

Dean gave him an incredulous look, "You're getting yourself mixed up with angels and freaky witch voodoo? That's a pretty deep grave you're digging."

Logan knitted his brows together, "We know what we're doing here, Dean. This will work. We just want you to start it off for us."

Dean sighed, "What do you want me to do?"

"For now, you just have to sit tight. You will continue training and if you are needed you will help our team on their project. They are working with the sample of blood that Doctor Stein took yesterday. There is not much you can do until the specialists have done their part."

"Their part? Meaning?"

"The technology is a work in progress. You'll be updated as Blue Sky feels fit."

Dean huffed. "So, Cas and I are the first?"

"Well, not exactly. The first of the new program, yes. Our previous attempts were," Logan paused, "less than successful. The angels proved harder to control than we had originally anticipated. However, we have not been discouraged. We are continuing to make progress with our other programs as well, refining our technique, and so forth."

"Look man," Dean started. Logan's eyes flashed, and Dean quickly corrected himself, "Sir. You're not making any sense, I don't know what you're talking about."

"Dean, I've been tasked with informing you of the, uh," Logan uncharacteristically fumbled, searching for the right words, "…situation with the angels so that you are not taken by surprise when you see Castiel."

"So he is here."

"To an extent, yes. But as I was explaining, the angels were more difficult to control than we expected."

Dean narrowed his eyes.

Logan reached inside his jacket and pulled out a few laminated pictures. Dean couldn't see what was on them until Logan placed them on the table and pushed them forward with the tips of his fingers. Dean reached forward to pull the pictures toward him and Logan continued to explain, "Our first attempts to bond the angels to the humans were unfortunately met with failure."

Dean looked at the picture in front of him. The room in the photo looked like one in Blue Sky, all gray with no identifying marks on the floors or walls. The figure splayed lifeless on the ground was a beautiful girl, long brunette hair spread around her head. Her hands and face were red with blood, it was dripping from her nose and mouth. But what Dean noticed first were the two immense scorch marks of wings, elegant, and black: the mark of a perished angel.

"You killed an angel?" Dean exclaimed, horrified. He glanced at the other pictures—more of the same. He pushed the photos away from him. They skidded across the table and bumped into Logan's chest. "How many angels have you killed for this?" Dean's voice was loud, and it filled the room, echoing off the walls. The words bounced back, reaching his ears again moments after they left his lips.

"Now, Dean, just calm down."

"No, I won't calm down. Where is Cas? What did you do to him?"

"I can assure you Castiel is safe."

Dean was breathing heavily. How could he believe this guy? He wanted to punch that calm expression off his face so badly it made his fist ache.

"I wanted to show you this in order to justify the precautions we have been forced to take. These angels were not killed purposefully—"

"You think that makes it better?"

"Dean, please don't interrupt. I am doing my best to explain," Logan said evenly. "When we first tired to work with the angels, they resisted. Violently. As you can see, more harm than good came from us trying to negotiate. Luckily, we realized it would be much easier if we leveled the playing fields. You see, they were too powerful for us to control as angels. So, our team developed a method of removing the angels' grace," Logan finished abruptly.

"You did _what?_"

"We took away what made them impossible to control."

"And you didn't think that was even a tiny bit fucked up?"

"Language, Dean," was all Logan said in response. Dean sat in stunned silence. What kind of people could do that? To take away an angels' grace—well, that was even worse than murder. It was taking away the very glue that held them together. It was like pulling on a loose thread and unraveling the seams, dismantling them, piece by piece. Despite the months of frustration and anger Dean had wasted on Castiel, his thoughts flew to him.

"What have you done to Cas?"

"As I have previously assured you, the angel is completely safe."

_The angel._ For some reason, that really pissed Dean off, "His name is Cas."

Logan hummed noncommittally in response, "And?"

Dean breathed out slowly through his nose. "_And_ I'm sure he's not thrilled about the arrangement."

"Well, if you would shut your mouth for more than two seconds, I would be able to explain. So if you don't mind, I'm a very busy man, and you receiving this information is a _privilege_, not a guarantee."

Dean clenched his hand tightly. He dug his fingernails into his palm to keep himself from spitting out a retort.

Seeing that Dean planned to be quiet, Logan cleared his throat and began his speech.

"Now, I know this is a lot for you to be able to take in—"

Dean's fingernails were beginning to draw blood from his palm.

"—but I'd like to say it without interruption for once," Logan gave Dean a pointed look, which Dean met with a glare. Logan stood, clasped his hands behind his back, and began to walk around the room.

"The angel, _Castiel_, has no feelings on the loss of his grace because he is entirely unaware."

At that Dean opened his mouth to say something, but a stern look from Logan made him think better of it, and he snapped his mouth shut to listen.

"After the removal of the grace, the subjects' minds were wiped. This means that certain brain activity is prevented. Our intention is to hold back any prior information. New memories and learning experiences can be had, but they are distinct from any previous, inaccessible cranial information. This procedure is managed by a microchip inserted at the base of the skull," Logan reached behind his head to tap the back of his neck.

"This microchip, when used in conjunction with a unique, specially-designed scannable tattoo, of sorts, allows us to monitor the subjects in every way we nee to. We are most interested in the brain waves, although physical health is also a priority. In order to keep the brain activity stable, the subjects are housed in a stress-free environment for safekeeping, the Dome. Its residents refer to it as Eden. The Blue Sky Dome is a contained area in which subjects carry out their daily lives none the wiser."

Logan, having finished his well-rehearsed spiel turned to look at Dean. "Quite brilliant, isn't it?" His eyes were twinkling again.

Dean wanted nothing more than to pound that giddy look right off his face.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

The smile dropped off of Logan's lips and was replaced by a thin-lipped expression. "Language!"

"You think I give a shit!?" Dean jumped to his feet. "You're a bunch of psychos! How is this okay? Huh?"

"We're doing this for the good of humanity. You know that."

"You can't just sacrifice angels!"

"We're not sacrificing anyone. That's the whole point. When we're ready, the angels will be restored to their former grace, good as new. The memory wipe is reversed. Their previous mental information is restored, and they will remember nothing of the Dome."

Dean sat down on the couch with a thud and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. He waited for Logan to explain.

Logan seemed relieved by Dean's sudden quietness. Maybe he'd forgotten that there's always a calm before the storm.

"Our team of specialists is working to solidify the Blue Sky technology. The angel's grace will be returned. The only difference will be that you will be able to control him. Ideally." Logan added almost as an afterthought.

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"I said no. I won't do this. I can't do that to Cas."

Logan sighed, "Dean, Dean, Dean. You act as if you have a choice. You're in this, but if you think we can't find a way to do it without you then you don't have a clue who you're dealing with. Your connection may be the easiest to forge, but we are determined. We would find a way to do this. With or without you."

"Then I guess it will have to be without me."

"Fine," replied Logan.

Dean was taken aback by the response, "Fine?"

"Yes, fine."

"Okay then," Dean pointed to the door, "You're going to let me leave?"

"Sure. Just one moment, I have to make a call to the Dome for the termination of the angel."

"Wait, what?"

"Well, we no longer have any use for him. And we can't just let him go; he's got valuable Blue Sky merchandise on him," Logan gestured to his neck again, obviously referring to the microchip.

Dean looked dumbstruck. It took him a few seconds to comprehend Logan's words. "You can't just kill him."

"Says who?"

"Says me!"

"You obviously want nothing to do with him. There is no sense in keeping a graceless angel around." Logan pulled a cell phone out of his jacket pocket and started dialing.

"Stop."

"What?"

"I said, stop."

"Huh," said Logan bringing the phone up to his ear, "That's funny, I thought I heard a snarky, ill-mannered caveman. Must have just been the wind."

Dean swallowed back the _fuck you_ on his tongue and struggled to be civil. "Sir? Please stop dialing," Dean forced the words out almost painfully.

"What for?"

"I'll do it. Just leave Cas alone," he said quietly. Dean was getting really tired of Logan's smug smile.

Logan ended the call with a beep.

"Why are you doing this to me?

"We're not doing this _to_ you. We're doing this _for_ you. We're helping you reach your full potential. Fulfill your destiny Dean! Fight evil, fight the demons. Save the world. It's what you live for."

Pains of regret, guilt, anger, and helplessness twisted in Dean's stomach. The bitter taste of bile was in his mouth. He longed for his lonely cellblock. Breathing deeply he willed the feelings to go away. He pushed them down, down, until he felt… empty. It seemed more and more he was realizing it was better to feel nothing, than anything at all.


	11. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER 11**

December 2012 ✶ _Castiel_

It had been a few months since Castiel had opened his eyes to the sight Anna's face inches from his own. Since then he had learned that life in Eden was dreadfully monotonous. Eden, as the archway in the center of the clearing declared proudly, turned out to be ten identical cabins circling a clearing, complete with picnic tables. Castiel wasn't impressed. He wasn't sure why, but something in his mind told him that it was right to expect a little more grandeur from a place with a name like Eden.

With Anna's guidance he had fallen into a daily routine. First thing in the morning, Anna would wait by Castiel's bedroom door so that they could walk together to attendance. They would exit their shared cabin and find their place in line behind the occupants of Cabin 6 and before the girl from Cabin 8. The Counter with the black hair that Castiel had confronted on the first day was always there. She and the man would stand in the middle of the clearing waiting for everyone to emerge from the cabins and line up so that she could take attendance. Castiel hated it, mostly because he dreaded the stinging in his neck caused by the scanner. It didn't hurt for too long, but sometimes he would find himself absently rubbing the back of his neck, fingers lingering where the cold metal of the machine would press against his skin. He had protested to Anna about going on the second day, but Anna persuaded him. _"If you want to be chosen, you have to follow the rules."_ Castiel would repeat this mantra to himself while he bit his tongue and allowed the black-haired woman to scan his neck. Castiel always left attendance with feelings of resentment and the taste of iron in his mouth from where he had bitten down too hard. It was worth it though. The promise of Paradise was enough to convince himself to stay on the Counters' good side. And that wasn't too difficult. _"Don't speak unless spoken to"_ and _"listen to the Counters"_ were the two rules that Balthazar and Anna had agreed would keep Castiel safe. Castiel had rolled his eyes but accepted their advice.

The Counters weren't around that much anyway, Castiel had found. They were there in the mornings for attendance, meal times, and Selection days. Other than that, the Counters didn't hang around Eden for very long. A few weeks in, Castiel had followed one of the Counters as they left the clearing. The man in the blue polo had noticed after Castiel had snapped a particularly loud twig underfoot. The man had looked back at Castiel and simply said, "No," while pointing a finger back to the cabins.

Castiel opened his mouth to argue. _Listen to the Counters_, Anna's voice rang in Castiel's head.

The man continued pointing, "Go back to the cabins." He spoke as if he was scolding a disobedient child.

Castiel snapped his mouth shut and huffed through his nose. As he was walking back, he threw his look over his shoulder and saw the Counter watching him go.

In the afternoons, if Castiel could shake Anna from his side, he would go exploring. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he found it entertaining.

Once, Castiel had stumbled upon a small lake. The water was like a mirror, reflecting the blue sky above but preventing him from gauging the depth. He wasn't even sure if he could swim. The thought came to him as he was loosening the drawstring on his baggy pants. He briefly considered finding out but thought better of it and tightened the knot, instead choosing to sit a few feet back from the water's edge. It suddenly occurred to him how big the sky looked here. There was dense foliage everywhere else Castiel had explored. Sometimes the leafy canopy above was so thick that almost all the light was blocked from the ground. But here, at the lake, this was new. View unhindered by leaves and branches, Castiel gazed at the sky stretched out above him. It was blue, beautiful. If the sky here was this lovely, he could hardly imagine what the sky looked like in Paradise.

Castiel left the pond with reluctance. He made it back just in time to receive his tray of dinner from a Counter and find his place at the picnic bench next to Anna. Anna spent the rest of dinner asking him where he had been and reminding him not to get into trouble.

Castiel hushed her, saying that he hadn't done anything wrong. Anna simply frowned back.

Besides exploring, Castiel found it hard to stay entertained, but selection days offered a break in the repetition. The first time Castiel heard the Selection day whistle it had made him jump. He'd been sitting in his room toying with a dandelion he had picked earlier. The shrill whistle pierced the air. Anna's yell from across the hall came almost immediately after, "Castiel!" Castiel looked up and saw her standing in the doorway of his bedroom.

"Come on, it's time for Selection!"

Castiel quirked an eyebrow and stood, placed his dandelion down on the bed, and met Anna at the doorway.

They walked outside together and saw the people of Eden, all dressed in white, lined up shoulder to shoulder in the clearing. A podium was set up underneath the iron arch that read "Eden" in large cursive lettering. The Counter with the black hair was holding a clipboard, marking the page with her pen. Castiel was relieved to see that she didn't have the scanner. A man Castiel had never seen before stood at the podium. His dark skin glowed in the bright afternoon light. He was dressed like a Counter, and he held an envelope in his hand.

Once everyone was standing in line the Counter began to speak.

"You have been gathered for the announcement of our selection."

An excited murmur rippled through the line.

"As a whole, we have been very pleased with your behavior. One person in particular has shown us diligence and compliance. To show our gratitude we have selected that lucky person to receive a reward."

Anna elbowed Castiel in the ribs and whispered excitedly, "Paradise, Castiel! Paradise!"

The Counter slowly opened the envelope in his hands and pulled out a piece of paper. "Haniel, cabin two," announced the Counter.

A small gasp of delight came from Castiel's left and he leaned forward to see a girl with light brown hair step forward.

The Counter grasped her hand between both of his own, smiling at her. He looked at the rest of the line, "Good behavior is rewarded. You are dismissed."

The line fragmented and dissolved. People meandered about the clearing, some heading back to their cabins.

Anna and Castiel walked back to their cabin side by side. Castiel was confused. "So, she gets to go to paradise?"

Anna turned her head to look at him, "Yes. Isn't she lucky?" A dreamy look filled her eyes.

"But if they were pleased with all of us, why was only Haniel picked?"

Anna rolled her eyes, "Why do you have to ask so many questions, Castiel? Can't you just be happy for Haniel? She deserved it! Good behavior is rewarded," she said, quoting the Counter. "Maybe if you tried a little harder to behave-"

"I am not defiant!" he said grumpily.

"Well, Castiel, you're not exactly their favorite. I'd say you have a long time before you can even get your hopes up about being picked," she rambled on while Castiel tried to block out the sound of her voice.

That night Castiel's sleep was tormented with nightmares as always. In his dream he couldn't move his arms or legs. In fact, try as he might, he couldn't move his body at all. The burning in his chest was just as strong as ever. It felt as though his very flesh was melting and tearing away. There was a pricking on the back of his neck, like a thousand little bee stings poking and pinching. He was screaming and the noise filled his ears until they were ringing. He couldn't tell where the sound of his own voice stopped and the resounding vibrations began. Castiel's eyes were shut tight. From behind the lids he could sense a light growing stronger. He squeezed them harder, trying to block out the painful brightness. Even with his eyes closed his vision was changing from black to red to white. Finally, he could stand it no longer. With a jerk he snapped his eyes open and found himself sitting up panting in his bedroom in the cabin. His vision was still white around the edges but the room was as dark as ever. He clasped his hands over his eyes and rubbed them until they were sore and he saw little stars. He grasped for the details with his mind, but the memories of the dream proved as difficult to catch as whips of smoke. Sighing, Castiel willed his head to remember something, anything. Yet as always, there was nothingness. He imagined a miniature version of himself, walking around his brain. In his mind Castiel stood in a void. Nothingness. Emptiness. Then in the distance he spotted a tiny orb of light, blinking on and off, waining from white brightness to black darkness. As he watched the little orb grew bigger. It was coming toward him. Fast. Castiel's imaginary self had almost managed to turn and run when the orb struck into him, bowling him over. The real Castiel dropped his hands from his eyes. Out of the nothingness something had come. The thought was so pure and strong after such emptiness that Castiel was almost elated. But still, he didn't understand. The orb of light, _of knowledge_, Castiel though, had contained only one word. One word that because of the utter blankness of the rest of his mind meant nothing. Castiel spoke it out loud into the darkness of the room, "Dean."

[A/N: What do you think's going to happen next? Reviews are highly appreciated.]


	12. Chapter 12

[A/N: Sorry this took forever to get finished! To make it up to you I've made it nice and long. Enjoy!

Also, another note: this chapter contains many changes in perspective, just a heads up to keep an eye out for the "✶" which indicates a change in narrator. xx]

**CHAPTER 12: It's Time**

* * *

January 2013 ✶_ Dean_

Every year the world turns white in a frosted splendor. On nights when the moon shines and sounds are dampened a dusting of soft powder, time can stand still. The air is rhythmically clouded by silent breath. There's a type of calm that is found, standing quietly in a snowfall. Drops of water crystallized in complex forms dance gracefully from the heavens. Millions of nature's works of art clinging to life on eyelashes are lost forever from the heat of a rosy cheek. It's both incredible and meditative to consider that every year without fail, from times of frozen nothingness life springs forth and prevails.

It had been snowing steadily for the last few days. A fine white powder was finally accumulating on the ground. The new year had come and gone unnoticed by Dean; the season's snow remained unseen.

More than four months had passed since Dean's arrival at Blue Sky. The days blurred together: each indiscernible from the one that came before. Dean struggled to accept his new life. Half of him yearned to just screw it and refuse to participate, while the other half reminded him that his life wasn't the only one at stake here. With Logan holding Cas's very existence in limbo, his hands were tied.

But it was hardly like Cas deserved his help. Where was Cas when Dean needed him most? Cas had abandoned him and left him to deal with Sam's death alone. And look where that had gotten him. A one-way ticket to jail. Now he was in this mess. Why should he waste his time worrying about Cas? If he thought about it enough, Dean could convince himself that Castiel was the one to blame for this whole situation. But deep down he knew that wasn't true. As angry as he was at Cas, he couldn't just feed him to the wolves. He wouldn't just let him be killed. Not when he had the ability to prevent it.

So Dean, with an internal debate almost constantly raging, fell into the routine of his program. Much of his time was spent at physical training. Meals remained, to Dean's dismay, as nutritious as ever. He grew stronger and more fit every day. Any "free" time was devoted to helping the specialists develop the Blue Sky technology in the lab. Dean had been apprehensive about it at first, but they never asked him to do anything too difficult. Most days he was put through both physical and written tests while the specialists took notes and recorded results.

Against Dean's will and with the help of a strong sedative slipped into his afternoon meal, Dean was implanted with his own microchip and tattooed at the base of his neck. It had taken some skillful contortion on his part, but he finally caught a glimpse of it in the bathroom mirror. It read "DC007" in thick black lettering, matching the sliver label on the door of his room. From the specialist's conversations, Dean learned that the scanner they pressed to the back of his neck over his tattoo read information from his microchip. This included everything from vital signs to brain waves. The fact that an implant could do that gave Dean the creeps. This was some really powerful witchcraft he had found himself mixed up in.

All the while there was Logan. His watchful eyes tracked Dean's every move. Dean's loathing for him increased daily. He was holding Cas's life above Dean's head like some sick prize to be won. He was the ringmaster, and he made sure Dean knew it. Sure, Dean couldn't do much about Logan's power complex, but that didn't stop him from daydreaming about the many ways his fist could collide with Logan's face.

In fact, that's exactly what Dean was currently doing. Dean was spending his free hour after lunch lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, and imagining the crunch of Logan's nose under his fist. Dean rubbed his knuckles and slowly cracked each one until he was satisfied. Dean let himself smile as he envisioned himself lifting Logan clean off his feet by his shirt collar.

Dean was unprepared for the sound of the mechanical door unlocking. He rushed to right himself. It was most likely Logan. He never failed to use corporal punishment for "disrespecting a superior," and Dean was already sore from this morning's training session. Dean rolled his eyes as he recalled Logan's words and struggled to his feet. Dean cleared the expression from face immediately as the door swung inward and, as expected, Logan walked inside.

Dean couldn't stop the look of confusion that clouded his otherwise straight-faced expression. Logan looked… _disheveled_. Well, disheveled for Logan, Mr. Never-One-Hair-Out-of-Place, anyway. His tie was askew and a line of sweat was beading on his forehead. He was panting slightly as well.

Dean tried to hide his amusement, "Good afternoon, sir," he said in mock politeness.

If Logan noticed Dean's tone he chose not to comment. Instead, he simply said, "It's time."

Dean raised an eyebrow, "Time for what, sir?" He still had at least half an hour until he was supposed to be at the lab.

Logan didn't respond. Instead he closed his eyes in a tired looking sort of way and raised one hand in a silent command for Dean to stop talking. Logan opened his eyes. "Come," he said. He swiveled on his heel and swept from the room.

Dean obliged wordlessly. He exited the room again rolling his eyes at Logan's turned back and wondered what was about to happen.

Dean followed him down the hall and almost collided with Logan's shoulder when the man stopped abruptly in front of an unmarked door.

It seemed Logan had regained the ability to speak on the walk over. He faced Dean and stared him in the eyes, "You are about to meet some very important people. The highest of the higher ups. So, for your sake and mine, _behave yourself_."

Dean was about to ask what the special occasion was, but he didn't have the chance. Logan pushed the door open and hurried inside leaving Dean alone in the hall. Dean took a deep breath. Logan had never looked so anxious. Dean pushed the door open and walked into a dimly lit room. There was no furniture, but there was a window on his left that took up the entire wall. Come to think of it, it probably wasn't a window, but rather a two-way mirror. Through it Dean could see a room that looked like a dentist's office. Tubes and machines hung from the ceiling above a patient's reclining chair. It looked like it had come straight out of a normal dentist's clinic, except; Dean noticed with an icy feeling in his veins, this one had leather straps where the patient's hands and feet would rest. Dean shuddered and tried to convince himself that he was safe on this side of the mirror. Dean briefly wondered who would be sitting in that chair before turning to face the circle of people gathered in the middle of the room.

* * *

✶ _Castiel_

Castiel's temple was throbbing and there was an aching in the back of his neck that had been there for a few weeks. Castiel shook his head; everyone was looking at him. Had he heard that right? It couldn't be. Why him?

"Castiel," the Counter repeated.

Castiel turned to look at Anna. She looked just as baffled as he felt. She placed a hand on the small of his back and shoved. He lurched forward, stumbling out of line. The Counter hopped down from the podium and took one of Castiel's hands between his own.

"Yes, congratulations," he was saying. He shook Castiel's hand so forcefully that it wrenched his arm up and down. "The rest of you are dismissed," the man said to the remaining line of people.

Castiel threw a glance over his shoulder to search for Anna in the crowd. She was watching him go. Her face was crestfallen. How long had Anna waited to be selected? And yet Castiel had been chosen. There was no obvious explanation. Balthazar moved to stand behind Anna and wrapped a comforting hand over her shoulder. Castiel was the one. He was going to Paradise. The thought filled with joy and guilt all at once. The emotions clashed and swirled together, making his insides squirm. There was little time to spend dwelling on these feelings. The Counter who had been holding Castiel's hand now shifted his grip to latch a gentle yet firm hold on his upper arm. Castiel lifted his free hand to give and Anna and Balthazar a wave of farewell. But the Counter gave his arm a tug and he turned he back on them, so whether or not they saw his goodbye Castiel would never know.

* * *

✶ _Dean_

Logan was hovering awkwardly around the circle of people who were talking amongst each other, doing his best to look relaxed. He caught Dean's eye and beckoned him over.

"Dean, it's my honor like to introduce you to the woman who made all of this possible."

Logan was pointing to a woman standing in the circle with her back to them. She must have heard Logan talking because she turned to face him. Her light brown hair bounced in loose curls as she moved. A sincere smile stretched across her face. She met Dean's eyes with confidence.

"Dean. So good to see you again."

_Again? What?_ Wait… Dean knew her face. He recognized her. But why? _Poltergeist. New York._ The details of a hunt, long forgotten, refreshed themselves in his brain. He remembered her.

"Charlotte? What are you doing here?" Dean asked in disbelief.

Charlotte's red lips twitched, "You may call me Miss Parker," she said coolly.

Dean caught sight of Logan's face over Charlotte's shoulder. The color was quickly draining and he looked like he was in pain.

"Er," Dean mumbled, taken aback. This didn't seem like the sweet, innocent Charlotte Parker of his memories.

Charlotte's smile widened again, "Not to worry. A simple mistake. I'm sure it won't happen again." Her white teeth flashed as she spoke. "Now, what am I doing here? That question is about to be answered. But in the meantime, I am here because all of this is my creation. Project Blue Sky is my solution to our ever-growing demon problem. And you are here because I knew you'd be just the man for the job."

Dean didn't know what to say. She certainly wasn't the Charlotte he had met years before. She had become someone else entirely. Someone capable of killing angels. The mind behind this place of deception and manipulation. She was the reason he was here and Cas was graceless. All of this, belonged to her. No matter how innocent her smile, Charlotte Parker was not to be trusted.

"No smart aleck response? That's refreshing," said Charlotte. Her voice dripped with sugary sweetness.

Dean met her eyes but betrayed no emotion in his expression.

Logan took the opportunity to step in, "Miss Parker, if I may?"

Charlotte scanned Dean from head to toe before answering. "Yes, of course. I have guests to attend." She turned to Logan, "Just make sure he's ready."  
"Yes, Miss Parker."

Charlotte turned away, returning to the circle of people who were still deep in conversation. Logan grabbed hold of Dean's arm and forcefully pulled him to a corner of the room. Dean pushed Logan's hand away.

"Dean," Logan whispered in an irritated voice.

"What's going on, Logan?" Dean whispered back forcefully.

Logan looked like he was literally biting his tongue. Dean imagined it was because he had casually referred to him as "Logan." But Dean didn't care. He was growing more and more annoyed with the situation. The list of things that didn't make sense was growing longer by the second. Charlotte, who he hadn't seen in years, was heading this entire organization. There was some creepy dentist chair on the other side of a window which he could only hope wasn't supposed to be for him. And "ready"? Ready for what? Screw yes sirs and no ma'ams. Dean wanted answers.

Logan seemed to be debating whether to give Dean a straight response or not. Apparently, he decided it would be easier to explain because he began talking in a hushed, hurried voice.

"As you are aware, we have been observing the angel Castiel while you have been helping our team of specialists develop Blue Sky technology. In the last few weeks we have been carefully monitoring the angel's brain function. It seems brain activity that should have been impossible, rendering certain memories inaccessible, have begun to occur in the angel," Logan paused to look at Dean's confused expression. "He's remembering things he shouldn't be able to, dumbass."

Dean opened his mouth to comment, but Logan cut him off.

"But that is not going to be a problem for much longer. We recently receive the okay from the specialists. The technology is ready. _It's time_."

* * *

✶ _Castiel_

The Counter was steering Castiel out of the clearing. Castiel remembered how he had once followed one of the Counters from the clearing. He had been ordered to go back, like a dog. And now he was being led like and animal through the forest. They were making their way down a path that was invisible to Castiel but must have been quite apparent to the Counter. He was weaving skillfully thought the brush. Castiel dodged low hanging tree branches and navigated his way over knobby roots along with the Counter. He was a little out of breath, but he thought it strange the Counter hadn't said anything yet so he prompted him, "Uh, so Paradise?"

"Oh yeah!" the Counter spoke like he had just realized Castiel was there. "You're in for quite a surprise," the Counter laughed but Castiel didn't understand the joke.

"So, how do we get there?"

"Uh," the Counter considered his question. "We're going to the airport. Yeah. You're going to fly in a big machine with wings," the man laughed again.

Castiel wasn't sure how he felt about that. Though, the Counter seemed to like to laugh so Castiel tried a joke of his own. "Too bad we don't have wings. Then we could just fly there on our own." Castiel laughed and turned to look at the Counter. But the man wasn't laughing anymore; he wasn't even smiling. He just gave Castiel a strange look and then trudged forward. Castiel guessed he just wasn't very good at making jokes.

They walked for a long time. In the distance was a group of trees bunched closely together. They seemed to be heading right for the strange landmark. As they got closer, Castiel could tell there was something weird about these trees. When they came to a stop in front of them Castiel realized that actually, they weren't trees at all. It was a wall, painted and covered with bark and leaves. Someone had gone through a lot of trouble to make this wall as inconspicuous as possible. Finally, the Counter relaxed his hand for the first time since selection, letting it drop from its place around Castiel's arm. He put both hands on the wall and began moving them around.

"What are you doing?" Castiel asked, dumbfounded.

But the man didn't answer. Instead, he seemed to find what he was looking for on the wall. He placed his palm flat against the surface and pushed. A metallic whirring began, startling Castiel. He jumped back, catching his heel on a thick root in the process. He landed on his butt with a thud among the brush, his eyes still glued on the wall.

A panel of the wall was receding back. It slid out of the way to reveal a dark passageway. The Counter positioned himself behind Castiel, looped his arms under Castiel's armpits, and hoisted him to his feet.

"This way."

Castiel hesitated. This sure seemed like a strange way of getting to Paradise. The Counter gave him a push forward. _Paradise_. Castiel reminded himself. He was going to Paradise. Fresh air and blue skies were waiting for him. Everything was going to be okay.

* * *

✶ _Dean_

Dean and Logan still were huddled in the corner of the room, away from Charlotte and her talkative guests.

Dean examined the metal cuff that Logan had just handed him. It was shiny silver and carved with strange symbols. Dean had seen something like it before, in the specialist's laboratory. Logan held an identical cuff open in his hands.

"So this is it, huh?" Dean whispered. "After all those tests, with so many people working on your technology, the best you could come up with was an ugly bracelet?"

Logan frowned slightly, "Looks aren't everything. These are a part of a very advanced line of technology."

Then, suddenly, before Dean realized what was happening, Logan grabbed Dean's free hand and snapped the cuff shut around his wrist.

"What the hell, man!" Dean said angrily. The cuff was heating up to a white glow, Dean began to panic, expecting it to burn, but to Dean's relief it wasn't hurting his skin. It cooled down, returning to the shiny metallic color as quickly as it had heated. Dean examined the cuff. It was about four inches long. As Dean spun it around he saw there was no longer a seam where it could be opened. The cuff had been melted shut, effectively locking itself together around his wrist.

Dean pushed it down and wiggled it back and forth, trying to work it off his wrist. But the metal had no yield and he found there was no chance of sliding the narrow cuff over the knuckles of his thumb.

Logan pointed to the other cuff Dean held in his hand. "A matching set. One for you. And one for the angel."

"Castiel."

"Yes. This technology will help strengthen the bond that exists between you. With the help of our custom incantations the cuffs will also help give you control over him. And if he's anything like you, you should consider yourself lucky that you have some help in that department.

"This isn't right. I shouldn't have this power," replied Dean. But actually, there were a few people on Dean's "To Smite" list. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all.

As if Logan could read Dean's mind he frowned, "Now don't get any crazy ideas, Dean. This bracelet is designed to contain most of the angel's powers. We can't have a vengeful, fully powerful angel in our facility. He could do far too much damage. This facility is state of the art, after all."

"Then what's the point—" Dean started.

"You will both be debriefed shortly."

"Both? Cas is here?"

"He'll arrive soon enough."

* * *

✶ _Castiel_

The Counter entered the passageway right behind Castiel. It was dimly lit but tiny lights lining the pathway along the floor lit the way. The path sloped downward steeply at first then gradually flattened. Castiel guessed they had been walking for nearly ten minutes before they came to a door with no handle. The Counter stepped forward and knocked loudly. A buzzer sounded and then came the mechanical sound of a bolt unlocking. The Counter pushed and the door swung out. The bright white light on the other side was blinding after the darkness of the passageway. Castiel blinked, trying to correct his vision. They had entered what looked like a small waiting room. Three of the walls had doors, including the one that they had just come through. The remaining wall had one plastic chair pushed against it. The door shut loudly behind them and Castiel heard the mechanical lock slide back into place.

"Sit," said the Counter, pushing Castiel down by a hand on his shoulder.

"What's going on?" This didn't feel right.

"Don't worry. Just some preliminary checks before we send you off. Making sure you are healthy. All very standard."

"Oh, okay," Castiel replied, trying to settle the butterflies in his stomach. _No need to be nervous. You're just excited,_ he told himself.

The Counter stood at a door and knocked. "When the buzzer goes off," the man explained, "walk through that door." He pointed to the one remaining door.

Castiel nodded in response.

The Counter's door unlocked and he left without another word.

Castiel looked down at his hands and twiddled his thumbs. Something was not right. His head throbbed and his mind shouted out, "Dean!"

_I don't know what that_ _means!_ He thought back in response. It was becoming increasingly annoying that his mind insisted on thinking the one word over and over.

_Dean. Dean. Dean. Deandeandean._

It was obviously important, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't remember what significance the word had once held. He wished he could remember. More than anything. Castiel buried his face in his palms. If he could, he'd even trade Paradise just to understand.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED...


	13. Chapter 13

[A/N: I have now become so skilled at procrastinating that I even procrastinate on things I enjoy. Apologies for the wait. You can blame Misha Collins and GISHWHES as well.]

**CHAPTER 13: By the Grace of an Angel**

* * *

✶ _Dean_

A buzzer sounded loudly. Dean looked up from where he was still inspecting the cuff he held in his hands. Everyone in the dimly lit room quieted and turned to face the window. Dean craned his neck, following the audience's collective gaze. The room on the other side of the window was still empty but as he watched, one of the doors slowly opened inward. A figure dressed in baggy white clothes cautiously entered the room. _Could it be?_ He looked familiar, but his face was downcast. The person tipped their head upward, looking through hooded eyes around the room. The man must have caught sight of himself in the two-way mirror because he walked toward it; touching his face and giving everyone on the other side of the window a good look at him.

Cas was hardly recognizable; his hair was shaggy and his trademark trench coat was nowhere to be seen. _But it was him._ "Cas!" Dean exclaimed. He pushed through the crowd and reached for the window.

"Logan!" Charlotte's voice rang out, "Control your recruit."

A hand closed around Dean's arm.

"Yes, Miss Parker," Logan replied gruffly as he tugged Dean backward and away from the window.

Dean tried to pry Logan's fingers off his arm, but the grip was steadfast.

"Dean, relax," Logan whispered next to Dean's ear, "Seriously. You're supposed to be here for this but I can take you back to your quarters if I must."

Dean's eyes were still glued on Cas's. He huffed in irritation but allowed Logan to pull him back. Once he was behind the line of spectators once again he gave his arm a shake and Logan let his grip fall. "Let me talk to him."

"Of course, all in good time, Dean. For now… just wait."

Dean sighed heavily and watched as Cas perched uncomfortably on the edge of the exam chair. A group of four people dressed in scrubs, their faces mostly hidden under surgeon's masks, entered the room from another door. He saw Cas tense at the sight of them and then gradually relax. Dean couldn't hear anything but from the way the doctor's mask was moving Dean assumed he was talking to Cas.

* * *

✶ _Castiel_

The man had introduced himself as Doctor Stein. His appearance was intimidating; only his eyes were visible between layers of blue cloth. The rest of his face was obscured by a surgeon's mask, his hair covered by a cap, both blue to match his scrubs. His voice was muffled, but Castiel could still make out what he was saying. His words were soft and comforting, and he seemed friendly despite his unsettling semblance.

"…standard procedure. Just to make sure your health is in order."

"I feel fine," Castiel replied warily, casting his eyes downward.

"Yes, yes, of course. We don't anticipate any issues. But you understand, we must be sure."

Castiel didn't really understand, but he thought it best not to argue. He was so close to Paradise now, he didn't want to risk making them angry and being sent back.

"Say, 'Ah,'" the doctor said, holding out a tongue depressor that another masked person had handed him. Nurses, his attendants, as Doctor Stein had introduced them. Castiel obediently opened his mouth, almost gagging when the man pressed his tongue down none too gently.

The doctor carried out the rest of the exam with efficiency.

"Okay, almost everything is in order," the voice said from under the mask. "Now if you could just slide back in the chair."

Castiel had been sitting delicately on the edge of the seat. He hesitated and the doctor scooped up his legs and maneuvered him around so they rested on the long chair. Castiel scooted his butt backward until his back rested against the cushioning.

"Just relax," soothed the doctor.

The nurses had been hovering uselessly for the entirety of the exam thus far, but now they set in motion and began to bustle about. One was lowering a length of tubing from the ceiling. Something that looked like a respirator was attached to the end of the tube.

Castiel eyed it warily. His chest was tightening for some reason.

"Breathe, Castiel," the doctor reminded him as he accepted the respirator from one of the masked attendants. "We're just going to measure your oxygen to carbon dioxide ratio," he explained.

The gentle words did little to relax Castiel's tensing muscles. The masked figures were surrounding him now, two at his feet, and two at his sides. The doctor stood next to Castiel, the strange respirator mask thing in his hands. Castiel's breath hitched in his throat and he gave his head a little shake. _No, no, no. Dean. Dean. Dean._

Castiel wasn't sure why he felt so incredibly nervous. His muscles were coiled and he could practically feel the adrenaline surging through him, preparing him for fight or flight. Although, neither seemed like a practical option.

Doctor Stein was holding the respirator out now, bringing it closer to his face. Castiel balked, and pressed his head back into the headrest, trying to put as much distance between himself and the mask in the doctor's hand. It was still coming closer.

Castiel whipped his head to the side, turning his cheek to the mask. He couldn't see to whom the hand belonged, but someone grabbed onto his chin. The fingers squeezed painfully around his jaw and forced him to look forward. He lifted a hand to fight off the tight grip but it was intercepted and pushed back down to the armrest. A strong hand held down his arm. Then the other. He heard a metallic jangle, like the buckle of a belt and felt more heavy hands at his ankles. Still unable to move his head he strained his eyes to see the attendants strapping his wrists and legs down to the chair with leather restraints he hadn't noticed before. He was too stunned and afraid to speak, but he bucked his body wildly against the straps.

This was the stuff of his nightmares. All at once they flooded back to him. The bright lift of the exam room stung his eyes. They watered and he squeezed them shut. He tossed his head, doing all he could to sake the grip on his jaw.

_No, no, no, no, no._

"Shh," the doctor soothed. Had he been speaking out loud? Castiel opened his eyes and saw that the respirator was just inches from his face. The doctor had been unable to align it with all of Castiel's thrashing.

In exhaustion, Castiel stilled momentarily. The doctor took his chance and closed the gap, covering Castiel's nose and mouth with the mask.

There was a hiss and Castiel's nose was filled with a funny smell. He held his breath for as long as he could. Soon the sharp pain in his chest overpowered him as his body screamed for air. Instinct took hold and he gasped, filling his lungs over and over again with the gas from the mask. His vision was darkening. Suddenly, he felt heavy and tired. He struggled to keep his eyes open, to fight the darkness, but there was little he could do. His breathing calmed and, slowly, he lost his mind to unconsciousness.

* * *

✶ _Dean_

Dean watched the entire ordeal in mute horror. Poor Cas, he was so helpless. Now he was lying limply in the exam chair. His wrists and ankles were strapped tightly down. The scene made Dean cringe. The masked people were pottering about the room, reading monitors and making notes on clipboards. Dean clenched and unclenched his free hand. In the other he still held the metal cuff that was meant for Cas.

Dean watched as the figure who had put the respirator on Cas's face stood and opened the door he had previously come through. Another person in scrubs and a mask entered the room carrying what looked like a metal cooler. It was marked with symbols, Dean noticed, just like the ones on the cuff around his wrist.

The box was placed on a table in front of the window and the carrier left the room. The masked man, who Dean decided was definitely the head honcho, stepped toward the box. The people who stood watching in the room with Dean stepped forward, eager to get a closer look.

The masked man carefully unlocked and opened the box. A greenish blue glow shone from inside, casting a light on the face of the man peering inside. A white mist, like the vapor of dry ice, poured over the sides of the cooler and onto the table, dissipating lazily as it fell toward the ground.

"Now—"

Dean practically jumped out of his skin when a man from the group spoke, breaking the awed silence.

"—could I request bit of narration, Miss Parker?"

Dean sought the speaker out in the crowd, and found the man who was craning his neck for a better look.

"Oh, course, Mr. Cooper. I'm glad you asked," replied Charlotte. "Our preliminary trials in attempting to align ourselves with the angels were less successful than we had hoped."

_Well, that's putting it delicately, _Dean thought as he remembered the pictures of the angles, bodies bloodied and mangled.

"We discovered quite quickly that the answer to our problem lie in cultivating a way to control the angels."

The masked man in the other room had picked up a pair of laboratory tongs and was lowering them into the open box with care.

Charlotte continued, "An angel's grace is the source of its power. Through a procedure designed by our very own team we were able to successfully separate the grace from the angel."

The man was lifting something out of the box. Dean unconsciously leaned forward from where he was standing by Logan's side. Clamped between the tongs was a thin vial, like a test tube. Glowing green and blue liquid—or was it vapor?—swirled inside the container.

The crowd "_ooed_" collectively at its magnificence.

"The grace of an angel," narrated Charlotte, "is the purest of all substances. A physical manifestation of faith and loyalty. God's gift to his creation. Its power is immeasurable, possibly infinite. We, however, have worked tirelessly to design a way to harness that power. In our fight against evil, wielding the power of angels will bring us victory."

Dean toyed with the cuff in his hands. He was still listening to Charlotte but his attention shifted from the vile of grace to Castiel, still lying limply in the examination chair.

One of the masked figures was bend over Castiel's chest. Dean's stomach knotted violently when he realized what the person was doing. What looked like a metal ring, about six inches in diameter was lying on Cas's now bare chest. There were markings carved into its rim. The masked figure was lining up long screws, pressing them down and twisting them right into Castiel's flesh, through rib bone and muscle, securing the ring in place. A wave of nausea crashed through Dean. With each rotation of the screws, Dean's skin crawled. He wanted to look away but his muscles were frozen. He was grateful that at least Cas seemed thoroughly unconscious; otherwise Dean was sure the pain would have been incredible.

Once finished screwing the ring into Castiel's chest, the masked person went to stand with the three others. The four of them had formed a semicircle between the exam chair and the back wall, giving Dean and the audience in the adjoining room a clear view.

Charlotte spoke again, "They will recite a spell, designed to weave the grace back into the angel."

The masked figure who had lifted the grace from its box moved to stand next to Castiel. He held the vial above the ring on Castiel's chest. Then he looked up, directly into the window at the spectators he obviously knew were there.

"Ah," sighed Charlotte softly, "Dean." Dean flinched when his name passed her lips, "I believe that's your cue."

The entire group of people turned to look at Dean.

He felt a hand wrap around his arm once again and knew without looking that Logan was escorting him out. They exited the viewing room and headed for the very next door in the hallway, the one that led to the exam room.

"Hold on to that," Logan said, pointing at the cuff in Dean's hands, "and do as they say."

Logan gave Dean no time to respond. He opened the door and pushed Dean through.

Dean took in the new perspective. He'd been right. As he had suspected, what was a window in the other room looked like perfectly normal mirror from this side. As he gazed at his reflection, he knew there were many more eyes, unseen behind the mirror, looking back at him.

"Dean," said the masked man holding the vial.

Now closer than before, Dean could see the man's eyes, "Doctor Stein?"

"Come. Stand here," he bobbed his head to indicate that he wanted Dean to stand beside him.

Dean silently obeyed and walked in front of the four other masked people to stand by the doctor's shoulder.

Standing this close Dean could see the subtle rise and fall of Castiel's chest as he breathed.

"Cas," Dean whispered empathetically. Four screws held the metal ring carved with sigils in place. A generous amount of blood dripped from each puncture wound.

"Shh, now," Doctor Stein hushed.

Dean heard the beginning of a chant: the grace-binding spell. Low at first, the voices of the masked people who stood behind him became louder and clearer as they continued. The doctor slowly tipped the vial until the grace began to pour out of the tube into the ring on Castiel's chest. Dean watched in amazement as the liquid grace didn't pool, but rather seeped directly through his skin and disappeared.

Suddenly, Castiel's eyes snapped open and from them shone a brilliant light. His mouth fell open next and light streamed from there, too, along with a shrill, mind-numbing cry.

Dean covered his ears as the lights flashed and the room vibrated with the reverberation of Castiel's scream. But as quickly as it had begun, it was over. Cas's mouth and eyes snapped shut as the last of the grace vanished into his chest.

The room was silent and Dean's ears were ringing painfully. Cas wasn't moving. _Oh, god. Something had gone wrong. It hadn't worked. _

"Cas," Dean breathed, barely a whisper, almost too afraid to speak and break the silence.

Castiel's eyes open with a jolt. No light shone from them now. Instead, Dean could see the icy blue of Castiel's irises. Cas blinked and focused his eyes on Dean's face.

"Dean?" Cas squinted in confusion and then groaned, a pained look washing over his face.

"Cas," Dean said again, louder in his relief, "Hey, buddy." He flashed what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

"You must complete the spell, Dean," the doctor ordered. Both Dean and Cas jumped. Cas in surprise at the unexpected voice and Dean having forgotten they were not alone.

The doctor spoke again, sounding impatient now, "Put the cuff on his wrist, go on." He pulled a peace of paper from the front pocket of his scrubs and unfolded it. As the doctor read from the sheet the symbols on the matching cuffs began to glow again, shining orange, like hot metal.

Castiel was looking around, "Dean, what's going on?"

Dean looked down at the cuff in his hands. He knew this was it; this is what Logan had been talking about. The spell that would strengthen their bond and give Dean the ability to control Cas. Control him, and, more importantly to Blue Sky, the power of his grace. "I'm sorry about this, Cas," Dean said apologetically. And that look of confusion, of innocence on Cas's face, that just about killed him. Dean was about to betray Cas, his friend, someone who trusted him. But what choice did he have?

Dean reached down and unbuckled Cas's wrist from where it was strapped down. Cas didn't struggle, letting Dean lift his arm from the chair. The carved cuff was still glowing in reaction to the doctor's words. As if on cue it opened so Dean could lay Cas's wrist inside. Dean held Cas's hand in one of his own, and with the other he folded the bracelet closed around Cas's wrist.

The doctor finished the incantation and looked from his paper. In response the bracelets, one on Dean's wrist and the other on Cas's, gave one last flash of light that filled the room and then gradually, like cooling metal, returned from a white-orange to the silver color they had once been. Dean watched as Castiel inspected the cuff on his wrist. It was only when Cas looked up at his face and then down again that Dean realized their hands were still clasped together. Dean let go immediately and cleared his throat.

He gave a small chuckle, mostly for Cas's sake, because really, he wasn't in the mood to laugh. "It's good to see ya, Cas."

Cas lifted his eyes again and then narrowed them into a squint. He began to sit up but stopped with a groan, clutching his chest with his freed hand.

"Wha—what," Cas began, looking down in wide-eyed horror at his bloody chest.

"No, Cas, don't touch that," Dean said, his own voice unsteady as well.

Castiel's hand dropped from his chest and he look up at Dean, pain obscuring his baffled expression.

The nurses had been hanging back, but now they moved forward, pushing around Dean to surround Castiel once again. Cas looked at them and then to Dean, "Stay away from me. What's happening? Dean?"

Dean tried didn't know what to do, Cas sounded frantic. "Hey, hey, Cas. Just calm down, okay? Just, uh-" Dean was lost for words, "Just shh, okay?"

Cas snapped his mouth shut and shot Dean another look of utter confusion.

"Tell him to lean back, will you?" one of the nurses said.

It took Dean a moment to realize she was talking to him, "What, me?"

"Yes, he'll listen to you."

"Uh, Cas," Dean said tentatively, it didn't seem like Cas would listen to anybody right now, but he could give it a try. "Relax, man. Just lay back."

To Dean's surprise Cas leaned back in the chair. Dean searched Castiel's face. There was that confused look again, almost pleading. Then Cas spoke, he seemed to be fighting to get the words out, "What are you doing to me? How are you doing that?"

Realization dawned on Dean's face. _It had worked._ Dean had no idea the spell would be so _effective_. He understood now that Cas had followed each one of Dean's instructions so far, _'Don't touch that,' 'Just shh,' 'Lay back.'_ Dean had been giving him orders without even knowing it, and Castiel had followed them all.

Dean suddenly felt very powerful; he had the grace of an angel at his fingertips. The thought surged through him and filled the cracks and places inside him that had long ago been emptied. This place, this prison, and the people here had wronged him, and they were going to pay. With Cas by his side, they were unstoppable. Weren't they?

"Don't worry, Cas. It'll be alright. You'll see," Dean moved in closer and rested his hand on Castiel's arm. "Now sit still."

The nurses removed the screws unceremoniously. Castiel gritted his teeth and arched his neck in pain, but followed Dean's order to keep still. Next the restraints were unlatched, but Cas stayed where he was. Once the attendants moved away, Cas, panting from the exertion, looked down at his chest and examined the four wounds that remained from the metal circle.

"It's all done, Cas."

"I don't understand," he said, still looking down. He lifted his head. When he met Dean's eyes again he looked frightened, "I'm not healing."

Charlotte chose that exact moment to throw open the door and enter the exam room. Logan was close on her heel. Dean assumed the others had been left in the viewing room.

"Well?" she said, her steps were deliberate and a smile pulled at her cheeks. "What do you think, boys?" She quirked an eyebrow, "Feel any different?"

Castiel was watching her warily. The nurses and the doctor had stopped what they were doing as they waited to hear what Charlotte had to say.

Castiel was the one to break the silence, "Who are you?"

Charlotte pointedly ignored him and turned her gaze upon Dean.

He, in turn, decided to ignore her question, and address the more pressing issue. "He's not healing."

Someone behind Dean cleared their throat, "Miss Parker, may I?"

"Yes, please, Doctor Stein," Charlotte responded.

Dean followed her gaze over his shoulder and saw that Doctor Stein had removed his cloth cap and mask. He creased the cap along the seam and began folding it into a neat square. "The symbols carved into that bracelet," he began, "as well as the spell, are very powerful. They must be in order to maintain the control of the angel's grace."

At that, Castiel let out a small gasp. Everything had happened so quickly, he hadn't understood, but now… Cas looked down at the cuff, rotating his wrist to read the symbols. He recognized many of them. They were ancient sigils, sometimes used for angel-proofing, and now they were being used on him, bottling his grace inside this vessel. Castiel made little noises in effort as he tried to pry the cuff from his wrist, growing louder in frustration.

Charlotte looked on but seemed to grow bored of watching Castiel's struggle, "Do you mind?" The question was directed at Dean.

"I don't—" Dean responded in confusion, but Charlotte cut him off.

"Doctor Stein was in the middle of an explanation. And he's being quite distracting," she gestured vaguely toward Cas who was now trying to use his nails to find a seam in the cuff. Dean understood what she was getting at.

"Cas."

The angel ignored him.

"Cas, stop."

Castiel stopped messing with the cuff and looked up at Dean with frustration and anger in his eyes.

"Well, I guess we know it worked," Charlotte said with a smug smile, noting Castiel's response to the command. She looked back to Doctor Stein signaling for him to continue.

"Uh, yes," said the doctor, trying to remember what he had been talking about before the interruption. "Right, the procedure was a success, we are happy to confirm. But in terms of the limitations of the grace, they are quite severe. This is, for the most part, simply precaution, but," he looked at Castiel, "a necessary one. We can't have you hurting yourself, or anyone else, for that matter."

Castiel glared at him.

"So," the doctor continued, "yes, the ability to heal, which is one of the benefits of angels' grace, is dampened."

"Well can't you just take it off for a second and let him heal?" Dean piped up.

Doctor Stein looked at Dean, "Uh, no. That would be… unwise. The wounds will heal on their own, the medical staff will see to it that everything goes smoothly."

"That sounds fantastic, Doctor Stein," Charlotte said with a wide smile, "I am so very glad things went according to plan this time."

Doctor Stein dabbed at his brow with the cap he held in his hand, "As am I, Miss Parker."

Charlotte gave a small nod that Doctor Stein took as a dismissal, and he made for the door, grateful to escape Charlotte's critical gaze.

"Are you joking?" Dean said, his eyes tracking the doctor as he left the room.

"No, Dean," Charlotte said with a tut, "We've waited a long time for this kind of progress, we're not going to just throw all that away for the sake of expedited healing."

Finally Castiel found his voice, "I demand you release me immediately."

Charlotte's eyes met Castiel's face, "You're in no position to make demands."

Castiel launched himself out of the chair and past Dean, the wounds on his chest ignored, putting himself inches from Charlotte's face, "How dare you use the gift of God's grace as a weapon in your war!?"

"Now, now, you know just as well as I do that this is everybody's war. And we all want the same thing, to take back our home from the demons."

"It is not our place to help you stop the demons. It is not His will," spat Castiel venomously.

"That's quite enough," Charlotte said turning her gaze to Dean, "Call him off, now. Before I have this mission terminated along with him."

Dean's breath caught in his throat. He had just got Cas back, and he wasn't about to lose him this quickly.

"Cas."

Dean saw Castiel's shoulders tense in anticipation for what he knew was coming.

"Stop. Stand down."

Castiel was quivering as he tried to fight the order. He gritted his teeth. His legs buckled, and he fell to his knees.

"It wouldn't be so painful," started Charlotte, "if you'd just behave like a good little angel and follow the order."

Castiel put both hands on the ground to brace himself. He was panting heavily as he lifted his face, contorted in pain, to look at Charlotte.

Dean saw it coming but wasn't quick enough to prevent Cas from gathering his saliva and spitting it at Charlotte. The wad of spit hit the leg of her dress pants and began to drip slowly onto the polished toe of her shoe.

It felt as if all the air had suddenly left the room. There was a quite, collective gasp from the onlookers and then silence as they waited for inevitable retaliation.

Charlotte was looking at her soiled pants. She slowly lifted her eyes to meet Castiel where he knelt before her. Softly, with calculated anger she spoke, "You'll regret that." She lifted her eyes to address the entire room. "I think that's all for today. I have guests to entertain. Logan, I'd like to speak to you outside."

Logan's face was ashen as he followed Charlotte out of the exam room. The remaining nurses, faces still covered in their blue masks, filed out as well.

Dean cautiously walked to where Cas was on all fours on the ground. He'd dropped his head down so his forehead rested on the floor as he regained control of his breathing.

"Man, Cas," said Dean quietly, trying not to be heard by anyone who might still be listening, "That was a bad move. You really screwed yourself over on that one."

Castiel's head snapped up and he jumped to his feet. "No Dean! This is _your_ fault! The only person who's 'screwed me over' is you!" Cas made little air quotations with his fingers as he spoke and finished by jamming a finger into Dean's chest, which, by the way, sort of hurt. Sure, much of Castiel's grace was being contained by the spell and the cuff, but he was still an angel. And even an angel's pointer finger could pack a powerful punch.

Dean knocked his hand away, and all attempts at being quiet were abandoned. "Fuck that, Cas. None of this would have happened if you hadn't just fucking up and vanished! I was alone. Sam was gone, you were gone. I had no one. No one. I went to _jail_ Cas. This place is my salvation."

Castiel snorted in response, but before he could say anything else the door to the exam room swung open once again and Logan poked his head around the door.

"That's enough. Let's go."

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED...

* * *

[A/N: Your comments and follows keep me going! Thank you!]


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